


Quietus

by my_inked_asterism



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Angst, Drama & Romance, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mythology References, Post-Canon, Smut, Temporary Character Death, lydia has to settle for a compromise to save bae, post 6a
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-07
Updated: 2018-03-28
Packaged: 2018-10-16 03:03:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 37,075
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10562385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/my_inked_asterism/pseuds/my_inked_asterism
Summary: “St– Stil–”One of his hands struggles to stretch over the ground, towards her. His lips form her name without actually pronouncing it. Or maybe she’s just not able to hear it anymore.Then gold turns into rust. Emerald becomes glass.And if someone would’ve ever asked, Lydia never thought this would be the way they shared their last breath.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey everyone! This is the first chapter of Quietus, a brand new multichapter fic i've had in mind for long by now, so i really hope you can enjoy it as much as i do! More tags will be added as the story goes, in order to not spoil anything.  
> POVs will be alternated! I'll try my best to write both Stiles and Lydia as accurate as possible, you guys will be the ones to judge me on that; first chapter starts with our redhead bae.  
>   
> HUGE THANKS to these amazing writers and lovely girls [Catherine](https://youaretoosmart.tumblr.com/) (cave_canem), [Sydney](https://stilesprefers-screamers.tumblr.com/) (loverofthelight24) & [Jade](http://wellsjahasghost.tumblr.com/) (LaughingSenselessly) for beta-ing the story and making me laugh with their comments. 
> 
> 'KAY I'LL STOP TALKING, have a nice read xx

_“I’m glad it’s nighttime and you can’t see me. I’m ashamed of my disguise._

_But love is blind, and lovers can’t see the silly things they do around each other.”_

  
–Jessica; The Merchant of Venice, by W. Shakespeare

 

* * *

 

A sudden clap of thunder makes her jump slightly in the bed, the distant roar still echoing in her ears as Lydia instinctively presses her bare back harder against Stiles and wraps the sheets around her body.

She feels Stiles’ arm react at once, even if still asleep, as it wraps around her middle tightly, pooling his comfortable warmth all over her skin. She often finds herself wondering how it could be possible that he knew perfectly how to make her feel good even when _asleep_.

It’s when her hand comes to cover his over her stomach, sleepily at first, that Lydia realizes it’s clenched into a fist, shaking almost imperceptibly under her touch. She immediately turns around in alarm to check her boyfriend out.  

She had just started shifting back to her side when the stark white flash of another kind of lightning crosses the room, immediately followed by the rumble of the storm.

There’s a boom, a shot from the sky.

Stiles’ scream joins it as he wakes up, sweating.

And suddenly the night is no longer quiet.

“Stiles,” Lydia whispers through the dark. She urgently searches for his arm, lifting up from the messy fort of pillows scattered all over the mattress from the previous night. She finally finds his shoulder and she’s surprised when she doesn’t feel him jump at her touch, the tension of his nerves palpable even through her fingertips.

“Stiles, it’s okay. It’s not them,” Lydia starts drawing circles on his back, brushing his skin softly, trying to help herself from counting the constellations of moles on it, which she knows would turn out quite distracting.

“It– that was– I heard a gun,” Stiles stutters, panicked, eyes wide in terror.

“It was thunder.” Her hands find his and she softly slows their nervous movements by tangling their fingers together, trying to give them peace. To give _him_ peace.

“But there’s a storm Lydia, they–”

“It’s just a storm, Stiles.”

“What if–”

“I remember you.” She interrupts him firmly, but still lovingly. Nightmares are hard to leave behind, but if there’s something she can do to remind him of what is real, what they had gotten to finally conquer together, she’s willing to spend every day of her life telling him. “I remember you love me. I love you too.”

His shoulders relax, his back curves a little as if a huge weight had just been lifted, though his eyes still look lost for a while, lost in a world that he only could have known. The same world that kept chasing him in his dreams and ceased only when he gave himself to her.

“You love me.” Stiles states, more like a thought out loud than directly to her.

“I do.” She cups his cheeks and suddenly turns his face to her, revealing the reddish shade his eyes are already turning into while filling with tears of bad memories. So she does what she can do best. Lydia kisses him, roughly and slowly, her still bare breasts touching his side lightly as she feels his right hand slide up to her waist to steady himself. “I’m here, and I love you _so_ much.”

He struggles to breath, just a little because this –them– is still too overwhelming sometimes, so much they feel it sucking all the air from their lungs when they kiss each other so deeply whenever they make love, and it's all just so right and meaningful.

Lydia lets him shake for a while as he makes his way between her legs, anchoring himself to her body and love. And finally his muscles soften under her when she spins them both around, her hands rested on his chest to support herself and synchronize her thrusts with the pounding beating under her palms. Her fingers curl tighter against his skin as if even just the thought of breaking the contact with his heart terrified her.

Only when she falls beside him panting, does Lydia finally hear him breathe. Not the shaky breath of fear or panic she unfortunately got used to in the last month. Stiles breathes of love, of peace, of life. He breathes out the tension and inspires her love for him; if this was enough, Lydia would let him steal all her oxygen to make him feel better and _alive_.

But then he moves by her side and slides one arm around her to pull her closer and turn her around at the same time, so that they find each other face to face, sharing the same breath with their mouths only inches away, and after all, she thinks, this way may be the solution for living.

She falls asleep after Stiles, watching his lips parting slightly and the frown disappears from his forehead as his eyelids fall heavily and the sun rises again.

 

* * *

  
  
It’s _Game Of Thrones_ ’ opening theme that wakes her up the following morning. Lydia sighs; she’s pretty sure she’s gonna have it stuck in her head all day long now.

Stiles muffles a curse against the pillow, his eyes still closed as he buries his face deeper to avoid the call and eventually misses it. Unable to help herself and knowing she won't fall asleep again, Lydia starts passing her fingers through his hair lazily, just because she can.

They’re given only a minute of peace in which she keeps staring at Stiles sleeping almost dotingly before the phone rings again and  it makes her eye twitch nervously.

This time Stiles grunts even louder but still stretches his arm to grab the device.

“Uhm, don't,” Lydia groans, as she follows his movements to stop him and kisses him chastely on the lips in the process.

“It’s Scott,” He replies sheepishly through the sound of the ringtone, his voice soft as he combs her hair with one hand.

Then he takes the call before kissing Lydia's pout away with a smirk. “Yo, Scotty.”

Lydia looks through the windows, checking the sky outside. It’s a yellowish hue, colored with a pale orange shade of the first lights of the dawn, indicating to her they must’ve slept for no more than a hour or so.

At the phone, there's a pause in which Stiles’ grin suddenly turns into a frown, a worried expression forming on his face as he immediately heads to the closet and starts rummaging for a pair of jeans before simply replying to the phone, “We’ll be there in ten, dude,” And he ends the call.

Normally, Lydia would’ve taken her time and not-so-subtly watched her boyfriend getting dressed in front of her; now she doesn’t have to– admiring the view from his bed. But now the tone of concern in Stiles’ makes her understand there’s no time for that.

“What is it?”

“Apparently the storm’s been more violent than what we thought. Last night a tree fell across the clinic’s street and Scott needs help to remove it with the jeep.”

Lydia frowns in confusion. “He’s a werewolf.”

“He said he tried but didn't manage it on his own.” Stiles shrugs.

“Okay...” She says, still not convinced. She had seen Scott overcoming supernatural barriers, break chains, lift so many weights by himself; she just finds it weird for a moment that a tree could overpower his super–strength. “I’ll call Malia for help while you take a shower.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at the implication, wearing the interrogatory expression she got to love so deeply and secretly with time. “Why should I take a shower?”

“Because honey, you sweated a lot last night and now, for how much I love you, you smell just terrible and _no, Stiles,_ ” she adds,“Masculine ‘perfume-ey-ness’ is not a thing. And it certainly doesn't make it less gross,” he sighs resignedly. He then grabs the towel next to his closet with a defeated expression that causes her to repress a chuckle immediately.

She pushes the speed dial for Malia on her phone, before eventually joining Stiles under the hot steam of the shower, washing their fears away among the remainings of the passion from the other night.

They dress up quickly, reluctantly, and pop into the jeep, heading together to the clinic, smiling.

 

* * *

 

The sun just started showing up from the horizon but still, the rain hadn't ceased not even for a minute during the night. Small drops fall and suddenly smash against the front glass of the jeep, soft as a Christmas blizzard at first but then hitting the surface hard as the jeep speeds up.

The phenomenon could easily be explained by science. Meteorologists call it a “sunshower”. It’s usually due to windy storms, sometimes miles away, blowing the flying raindrops into a cloudless area. This time though, Lydia notices, the drops are falling plumb.

Sometimes a sunshower is created when a single rain cloud passes overhead— but there are no clouds above them now.

Sunshowers usually create rainbows in the sky. Then again, the bright yellow of the dawn is the only one color painting the sky at the moment.

And she’s trying to ignore that awful feeling in her chest, she really is. Lydia wants to concentrate on the gentle touch of Stiles’ hand over hers, wants to tune out the amplified sound of the raindrops, blaring hard like hammer blows in her head.

She hides her winces from Stiles the best she can, facing the window on her right and faking interest for the desert road outside.

But she’s never been good at hiding feelings from him anyway.

“Hey. Are you okay?” His thumb strokes her palm softly to remark the concern.

Lydia turns to him already, about to reply, when suddenly Stiles’ hand disentangles from hers and joins the other on the steering wheel as he brakes the car abruptly in the middle of the street, causing the wheels to squeak sharply through the asphalt.

Without realizing Lydia had closed her eyes in the process, gripping Stiles’ arm with one hand and the small door with the other one for support. She mutters a curse to him between teeth, but when she hears no reply –the lack of banter is always a bad sign– she finally opens her eyes, only to find Stiles staring open–mouthed with wide eyes at the street in front of him.

She follows his gaze immediately, and even through the rain, she can clearly spot a person standing before the jeep, a few feet away from it.

Lydia recognizes him at once. Despite the streetlights being off, despite the pouring rain against the glass, she knows his tall and tough figure, the exaggerated muscles that once she also found slightly attractive, bare just like the rest of his body except for a pair of short pants covering his thighs.

“What the he–”

They both get that something is wrong when they finally catch the color of the flames around Parrish; not red and almost black like they use to be in his supernatural form, like they’ve seen them so many times. But they’re glowing green.

A pit of dread blooms in her hollow stomach as she sees his eyes of the same shade, and remembers the last time they all saw him shifted like this, no more than a couple of months ago.

Stiles swallows, not even bothering to hide the terror from her anymore because Lydia knows that the last time something like this happened to the Hellhound, two werewolves had been barely enough to detain him.

Stiles has been just about to wake up from the shock, slowly making his way to turn up the engine of the car again when Lydia suddenly snaps the door open and jumps out the jeep, her short legs marching like a soldier facing the war across the street.

She feels Stiles’ eyes burning holes in the back of her head, she almost feels his sweat go cold at every step she takes toward the deputy but she doesn't care. She won't risk to lose Stiles again, especially when she knows she can make something to avoid it.

After all they’re both harbingers of death; maybe the supernatural abilities they have in common can help her bring Parrish back and prevent him from hurting someone.

Lydia’s always been the optimistic one of the two.

She hears Stiles shouting her name from behind her. The door of the jeep shuts close with a loud slam as he runs out of it to get to her, but Lydia’s eyes are on the Hellhound still, trying to avoid the sight of the fangs the creature shows when he lets out a threatening growl at her moves.

“Parrish,” she calls him, unable to hide the tremble in her voice. “This is not you. You have to come back to us. You hear me? This is not you.”

She keeps saying those words with the same tone Scott used to hypnotize her when she had to recover the memories of Stiles.

Her tone is firm, her voice as flat as she manages. She carefully approaches the deputy, measuring every move she makes at the point she starts paying attention to every detail that could let him go off. She tries to slow her breathing, to balance her weight at every step… as if she was trapped in a jail with wild animal ready to assault her at any moment.

Which, come to think of it, doesn’t differ so much from the actual situation.

Hesitantly, she moves closer. Parrish’s body is covered in greenish flames which seem to refuse to turn off even under the incessant rain, or the wind that blows so hard now that Lydia has to brush her locks away from her face over and over again in order to have a proper view.

By the time she’s just inches from the cold flames of the Hellhound, Stiles has reached her, his breath broken by the heat, until he slowly shifts by her side and puts an arm in front of her as protection.

Neither of them is so naive to think it would be enough to keep them safe, but still, Lydia always finds herself breathing better when next to Stiles.

“Lydia, we have to go,” he whispers to her, eyes still stuck on Parrish in alert despite the fact that he looks lost in a sort of trance now.

“We have to stop him,” Lydia replies, and for some reason it sounds more urgent than what she planned it to be.

“Stop him from _what_?”

But she doesn’t get to answer.

A thunderbolt suddenly appears above them, the flash of lighting blinding their eyes just enough to let them miss Parrish’s reaction to it.

And the entire situation is so contrasting, Lydia would be running to the nearest library to do researches about it instead of behind a tree; the rumbles still echo in the sunny sky, the rain falls down like a waterfall on the still burning body of the deputy, covered in cold flames, as he hits Lydia, the girl he flirted with for nearly a year, hard on her stomach and causes her to smash on the ground at once.

The moment her body violently hits the ground Lydia winces in pain, her arm embracing her middle where she knows a huge bruise will soon appear to mark her already ruined skin and for a second no air seems to filter in her lungs. Suddenly she’s gasping, coughing hard in search of oxygen while still lying on the cold asphalt of the street, until she finally breathes again. Her panting becomes more regular, the ache pools all over body and with narrowed eyes her sight finally gets clearer, just in time to notice a massive green spot about to hover over her. And she panics.

The buzz in her ears is louder than ever but it still doesn’t get to cover the terrifying growl that escapes from Parrish’s mouth when he catches her attempt to stand on her feet again. And once she does, the aching pain at her belly fades in an instant when she suddenly catches sight of Stiles running towards her, his baseball bat already over his shoulder ready to charge a blow. She feels her eyes filling with tears somehow, her chest moving up and down heavily at the only thought of him being closer to the Hellhound and risk his life _again_ for her.

And if Parrish sees him…

 

_If you die, I will literally go out of my freakin’ mind._

 

Parrish’s eyes open wide when he hears the upcoming steps of Stiles running desperately behind him. He’s about to turn around, eyes glowing with a stark green that makes her heart go cold immediately as they rest on her boyfriend, when Lydia gathers her last strengths and directs her scream towards Parrish as loud as she can. A charge of slightly invisible waves of power ploughs through the air, a punch of energy that blows up from her hands and hits its aim like a shovel as she feels her throat burn in a way it never did before. The scream is so loud that Lydia finds herself stumbling a little bit when she finally drops her arms at her sides, head lolling forward just a second for the recent effort and she suddenly feels _exhausted_ ; the buzz of her own voice echoes in her head, causing her to wince as if her skull was about to break at any moment.

Lydia recalls just another time when she had screamed with such ferocity and desperation to leave her panting so heavily afterwards, and she’s not surprised to realize that in both situations she’s had the same goal. To save him.

With a small feeling of satisfaction in her chest, Lydia lifts her chin and straightens to check out the result of her work.

But the smile quickly fades on her face.

The effects of her powers had barely left marks on the Hellhound’s body; just like how happened at Eichen House, he’s become immune to her screams.

 

_“Stiles, RUN!”_

 

The memory surfaces in her mind like a deja vu, and the words come out of her mouth at the same time with her train of thought as she screams his name in tears, her voice rough and broken for the pain she tries to ignore.

Stiles is on the ground, the baseball bat reduced to two sticks spattered in mud at his feet. And despite the grimace of pain on his face, and the cuts visible even through the material of his shirt where several red spots filter from underneath, she hears his voice, more distant than what it actually is, muttering things to the colossal creature in front of him, ranting with shaky voice to hold him from changing his aim.

Stiles’ eyes dart nervously from her to Parrish, as to carefully analyze the situation while acting. But then finally their eyes meet and he can’t help but lock his gaze in hers.

He’s _terrified_ . The look he throws her seems like a plea to her, as if he was begging her with those amber eyes to stay out it, to stay safe. He’s also so bold to show her a smile of reassurance at some point, which warms her heart at once like always but also makes something inside her more alert than ever, because she’s caught _sadness_ in his look, like a shade of relief and finality that suddenly, for some reason, makes her stomach lurch, a sense of nausea spreading all over her body at the slow realization of what he’s willing to do for her.

She’s shaking her head, drinking her own tears, even when Stiles turns around and with a twitch suddenly kicks Parrish on his shin with both his feet, before trying to stand up and taking advantage on the monster’s wincing.

He’s not quick enough though, and in the process, the Hellhound growls in anger and punches Stiles on one side, throwing his body feet away with just one blow.

Stiles doesn’t react and lies down.

Her heart starts pounding so much she thinks it could break her sternum. Which, If Stiles doesn’t wake up, she thinks it wouldn’t be such a bad idea if that happened.

 

_Show me your eyes…_

 

She feels her body shake, not under her control anymore. And Lydia just glimpses the greenish silhouette heading towards her but it’s all wavy, hazy through her tears.

 

“Stiles…” She lets out, but a sob breaks her voice and she’s crying uncontrollably again.

Her feet are anchored to the ground, she doesn’t feel part of this world anymore, not if he’s not in it with her. She keeps staring at the rivulets of smoke coming out of his dark green flannel, now showing a large black hole of burnt material where Parrish hit him only moments ago, when suddenly her feet lose contact with the asphalt and her breathing stops in her lungs.

The hand around her throat tightens its grip as she lazily tries to wiggle out of it, eyes still stuck on the motionless body of her boyfriend and her own hands, that instinctively had found their way to the wrist of the Hellhound, slide away from it, falling to her sides like a puppet at the end of the show.

The cold has already started pooling over her limbs when Stiles’ head moves. He faces her, and she wishes she could be able to cry more, to die faster, to have more than just one heart to be broken, because now he’s staring at her with so much sorrow in his wet eyes that she’s positive she won't be able to handle that sight. His face is mostly covered in blood, mixed with tears and mud that put in show just partly what he’s feeling inside. He helplessly watches the woman he loves emanate her last breath, and he slowly dies himself as well.

“St– Stil–”

One of his hands struggles to stretch over the ground, towards her. His lips form her name without actually pronouncing it. Or maybe she’s just not able to hear it anymore.

 

Then gold turns into rust. Emerald becomes glass.

 

And if someone would’ve ever asked, Lydia never thought this would be the way they shared their last breath.

 

* * *

 

  
Death has no color.

For some reason –some obvious ones though– Lydia always figured it to be like when you close your eyes before sleeping, without actually being asleep yet, with the same sense of loss and hollowness that precedes the dreams. Your mind begins to work, but none of the thoughts find an actual conclusion at the end. You’d just spin around and finally fall into the dark.

She knows that because she had experienced it already, not long time ago, after all.

But this didn’t feel like a fall at all, she doesn’t even remember to have closed her eyes. Lydia just recalls a burning hand on her throat and the image of Stiles’ eyes slowly losing vitality in hers.

The memory makes her want to cry again, then she realizes she never actually stopped as she tastes the salt of her own tears when she licks her lips.

She feels unfocused without him. Her mind is blank, the analytical skills she always finds herself to develop while solving cases and discovering the supernatural by his side seem like a faded dream now, as she walks through what it looks like a gray desert and takes it in.

There’s fog everywhere, so she’s not able to see a thing around her. She can tell it’s actually haze and not a side–effect of her crying because Lydia can literally _feel_ it on her skin, as if it came to rest on her body the moment it comes in contact with it. Whatever it is, she knows this fog is nothing ordinary; it’s heavy, weirdly dry and incredibly high, like a wall of mist.

The last time she died – she’s well aware of the nonsense that thought is – Lydia remembers just the emptiness, like a black hole that was slowly swallowing her, if it wasn’t for that light of sparkle made by Stiles’ voice. And then he brought her back to him, and his eyes were full of tears, his hands were on her face and somehow they had managed to keep her warm even when everything warm in her body was leaving her. And his lips were inches from hers, trembling; his breath on her cheek gave her life twice in a row as she had felt his sight of relief on her skin.

And her heart; her heart had been _his_ from that moment on, completely and irrevocably.

But there’s just silence this time.

No gentle voice echoing far away.

No shaky hands are grabbing a hold of her body and heart to bring her back.

And the only thing she can think of right now while dying, is that that same voice is mute now, and those hands will never shake ever again, because they’re lying cold on the ground.

“It’s been a long since we had a banshee.”

Lydia turns around so quickly her neck cracks a bit.

“Just one year.”

“The one who hung herself,” a third voice interferes.

“Yes but she didn’t _die._ ”

Lydia would feel nauseatingly upset at the memory of the time she thought her friend was dead, it if wasn’t for the mere realization that she actually died herself and that some people –whoever they are– in here –wherever it is– know she’s a banshee, somehow.

Indistinct voices come out from the haze, never from a specific point, and seem to echo all over around her during their banter.

Lydia takes a step forward toward the unknown, just for the need of moving than anything else, and she’s about to open her mouth and ask the question, still shook but now more curious, when the white fog suddenly stains with four different colors she can’t actually distinguish very well at first.

There’s a charge of dread running up her spine, goosebumps start forming on her skin when she spots the horses and she can’t help herself from closing her eyes and racking her brains to picture the golden eyes or the soft lips she fell in love with, in her mind.

She knows him. She remembers him.

 _It’s not them,_ she states silently.

But the sigh of relief dies in her throat when the first figure cuts the thick veil of mist and shows up, slowly, even dangerously, followed by the others.

It would have been a quite fascinating sight if she wasn’t literally frozen in fear.

Four men approach her, each of them riding a horse which in some way reflect the knights on it. The first one, who she identifies as the leader by the way he stands in forefront, catches her attention at once.

Unlike the others, wearing all stark colors, his vest has a greenish, almost white shade; everything in his aspect reminds her of a ghost for how _pale_ he is, from the skin of his elegant face, to the spectral eyes which hold a severe expression that seems to make them sparkle lightly –the only sign of life he wears–, down to the horse itself–a skinny arab with a pallid gray coat and watery green eyes just like his knight.

Lydia suddenly manages to look away from him and quickly throws a glance to the other horses behind him. The three of them look more silent, but this doesn’t make them less lethal, she can tell. All wear different colors, as well as their horses and their props: red, black and white. This latter though haven’t looked at her yet, not even once, during the whole time.

“Who are you?” She had been very thoughtful about the choice of words, since her first instinct was to use ‘what’.

The greenish knight straightens his spine at once as he starts. “We’re the four horsemen, of course. We’re harbingers of death,” he smiles, but everything else in his face stays glacial. “Just like you. That’s why you’re here.”

“Here? Where is _here_ , exactly?” Lydia lets out, looking around herself to point out her disorientation.

“We’re living in an in–between world. We were born to erase the sin from the Earth, that’s why it’s impossible for nature to live there to us. And for the same reason, we can’t die either, since our goal is to bear death among humanity.” He explains coldly, almost detached, as if he had this talk billion of times already.

It’s hard to process initially, of course. First she thought she was dead, and then she’s not – not for good anyway–. She’s told she finds herself in a place between life and death, where she practically can enter thanks to her powers. And then again, Lydia feels to miss a clue, a very important one, that seems to surface every time she stares at the colors of those horses.

There’s something more, and Lydia feels like she will regret to find it out.

“You’re not dead, but you’re not alive either?” She asks quizzically, taking her time to analyze the situation.

“Exactly.”

“So what is this? Is this a sort of purgatory?”

The horseman sighs, slightly exasperated at the association. “In Dante’s terms, yes.” He drones. “Call it as you like it.”

“That’s Shakespeare, though,” Lydia deadpans, regretting it the moment she catches the scolding look on all four of their faces.

She mentally notes to herself to avoid sense of humor with undead creatures from now on.

“Anyway,” she hears one of them, the black one, break the silence. “We want to make you an offer.”

His hollow eyes suddenly locks in Lydia’s and that’s when she realizes he actually doesn’t have pupils at all. They’re just two black small spots surrounded by the whitish skin of the knight and the high–pronounced bones of his face, which overall makes him resemble to a skull with two big roaches on their way to eat it.

Lydia instinctively swallows, focusing her attention back on the horseman on the front, whom she noticed, has now all the eyes on him as if they knew that’s a talk he has to do.

“We offer you a chance to come back to life.”

If she still had a beating heart, she’s positive it would be dropping and jumping at the same time now, both from the surprise and the unfamiliar hope.

She’s about to smile, the corners of her mouth had just started turning upwards, when she reminds herself the place where she is, and the semi–humans she’s talking to.

Hope fades away. That’s something she’s definitely familiar to, at least.

“But?” She sighs.

And that’s their turn to smile. Four maleficent sneers grow wider in unison, slowly, like maneuvered puppets, and among all the bad things she saw in her life –an endless list she refuses to sort right now– this is by far one of the creepiest.

“But,” he adds slowly, “you’ll have to fight by our side in the final battle.”

Lydia doesn’t even process the situation when he finishes the sentence. She has no clue of what he means by mentioning a final battle. The horseman doesn’t stretch the speech with an explanation and Lydia, for her part, is too afraid to know what it is to ask for one. Then again, she’s not new to the concept of fight, and suddenly the flashback starts shooting in her head like an old movie. A bluish, giant monster tries to kill her friends, then the image changes and the beast is a werewolf sinking his claws in her throat with so much speed she barely sees it happening. Everything is white stained with blood.

So she decides she doesn’t need more information, that whatever this clash is about it sounds like a distant event to occur for the way they talk about it, meaning she’ll have time to figure out a way to escape this.

But they need her, and she can use that.

She needs something too.

“I’ll fight for you if Stiles comes back to life too.”

“What the hell is a Stiles?” He snaps, annoyed by her obstinacy.

“My boyfriend.” And the word suddenly sounds so ridiculously limitative as she lets it out, she feels like it doesn’t give him justice. “He’s the boy I love.” She then adds, lifting her chin slightly.

The pale knight has time to only open his eyes wide in shock mixed with anger before a voice thunders from behind him, taking advantage on his brief moment of indignity to speak.

“Do you think this is a game?” The red horseman suddenly roars, making her jump at the violence of his tone. “You think you have a say in the matter? It’s a life for help; you died – you resuscitate and fight. It’s no negotiation–”

“You may not want to wait another half century to have a dead banshee around here, don’t you?”

“How _dare_ you _–_?” The sword in his hand bursts into flames followed by his eyes at her statement and as if they were thinking as one being, the horse immediately moves forwards with a jerk that has her on her knees at once, before she realizes the animal had been stopped right inches away from her and only seconds before it got to assault her.

With an arm splayed across his companion, the eyes of the ashen get to rest on Lydia, now miserably kneeling on the ground. His glance freezes her soul the moment his spectral eyes meet hers, and suddenly all the audacity of a few minutes ago fades away as if swallowed up by his look.

There’s a moment of gloomy silence when the ghost-like figure looks down at her with narrowed eyes and scrutinizes the situation.

She tries to stop her hands from shaking by clenching them into fists, but when he speaks again after what it felt ages to Lydia, all her attempts go vain.

“What do you offer?”

Her response is too quick and instinctive.

“Anything.”

The wicked smile that appears on his beautiful features creates a creepy contrast that makes her regret of her answer at once.

“You’ll collaborate with us the whole time.”

Lydia stares at him quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“You’re going to be our mole,” the horseman states. “You’ll keep us informed of what they find out about us and our goal. You’ll slow them down so that we’ll have time to rise, until we’ll be ready for the final battle. And then you’ll be fighting by our side.” His voice turns darker, lower. “You’re always gonna be with us.”

“I won’t betray my friends!” She shouts, holding back the tears of panic already forming in her eyes.

“A life for a help. Two lives –double help.” He remarks in a deadly calm tone.

Her breathing turns rapid as her heart starts pounding more violently in her chest. And at every beat it makes, she feels her brain trying to scream louder over it, telling her how risky and stupid and wrong would be to accept such a deal.

She places a hand over the left spot of her chest, just to listen better, to get what it’s saying, to be positive she is going to do the right thing –because deep inside her she knows already what the answer will be–.

 _Thump-thump._ It’s for him.

 _Thump-thump._ It’ll beat again.

 _Thump-thump._ It’s worth it.

“He’ll be alive again.” She whispers, a tone of question hidden behind just for confirmation.

“You won't tell him _anything.”_

“He’ll be safe. And out of this.”

“You gotta keep us updated about everything they know. Always. And fight if necessary.”

“I won't kill for you,” Lydia growls immediately.

“You’re not the one to dictate rules here, banshee.” He roars as well, overcoming her voice.

“I agreed on many things already– I will lie to them. To all the people I love, for you. But there’s no chance I’m going to hurt them if it happens they’ll be smart enough to–”

“Then I think you better prevent them from doing whatever might cause them to die, don't you?” He snaps coldly at her.

Lydia exhales a shaky breath. Then pauses for a while, her mind blurry. This _has_ to be just a nightmare.

“Stiles will live.” Because she never really had the confirmation she wants.

“Yes.” The pale one concedes finally.

And at the end of the day, that’s all she really has to know.

“Okay.”

The simple word echoes in the air, followed by a sudden boom of a thunder coming from a sky too far from that world.

Her gaze had moved up to the mist above her but it lowers immediately when she realizes the ground underneath her feet is suddenly fading away. The four knights and their colors, which once were stark and bright, now start turning whitish, blending in the smoke of the midst around them.

Her eyes try to adjust at the new sight but the eyelids keep betraying her, becoming heavier, asking for rest…

“Oh, and Lydia?”

Her name wakes her up enough to glimpse at the green sparkles of his eyes, visible even through the fog.

She stares at them without speaking, hypnotized.

“You come back to life, and he lives as well. Your lives are bound now.”

Lydia tilts her head dumb.

Two deadly green spots are the only one thing she’s able to see now. Then again, she feels the sneer on his face clear like during a sunny day.

“Meaning,” he continues slowly. “If you die, he dies too.”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Malia tried to put on the claws a couple of days ago but she just… can't. I’m so worried.”  
> “Scotty, I’m sure she’ll be okay. You can't just _turn into_ a human from nothing right?”  
>  “I guess not.” Scott murmurs, dejected.  
> On the other side of the table, Lydia, who’s been eating her dinner silently the whole time, suddenly stands up and collects the empty dishes.  
> She turns around looking down at the floor without saying a word.

_One’s an accident._

* * *

 

There are white lights pointed at his face above him.

The small bed where he’s lying is squeaky, banging against the walls around when he realizes they’re moving. He’s inside of a car and one wide hand is touching his face softly.

He focuses on the warm contact before fainting again.

* * *

 

When he wakes up again, there’s a small crowd of people wearing white watching over him, murmuring things he can't really distinguish. Their faces are blurry, with voices so distant….

One loud, yet so gentle, voice speaks over the others.

“It’s gonna be alright son, I promise. You’ll be okay–”

It’s not her, but it’s enough to let him close his eyes again.

* * *

 

His eyelids shutter without opening yet, the tiredness he’s not really aware of fights against them, eventually losing when he finally opens his eyes.

The hospital room is dark, so it doesn't take him much to adjust his sight at the new view **,** which consists in nothing more than a bluish nightstand and a matching table with just a bottle of water on it.

Licking his lips, he finds them dry, just like his throat as he swallows for the first time after what feels like an eternity **.**

Instinctively, he moves forward to sit down but has to stop at once.

His arm is trapped. He can't really feel his own muscles react –probably still because of the anesthetic shot – but there’s a warmth pooling from his hand that makes him turn to check it out, still sleepily.

And finally, _finally,_ all the air in his lungs feels some sort of new when he spots her beside him.

His heart starts pounding so hard in his chest that he imagines it could actually wake up the whole hospital. His lips follow right after and curve upwards to form a loving smile she’d melt at, if she wasn't sleeping.

Stiles takes a good amount of time to stare at her tiny figure, sprawled and stretched towards him for as much as the bed’s scaffolding lets her. He slightly glimpses at her face under the messy cascade of strawberry blonde locks and still hidden in her crossed arms, carefully resting on his own hand as to keep a contact with his skin, but Stiles can tell how tired she is from the black circles visible under her eyes.

He moves his free hand and reaches for her scalp, softly stroking and combing through her now loosened curls with his fingers. Suddenly, his heart feels both so light and _full_ at the sight of her and at the feeling of her warmth under his skin.

It’s in moments like these that he finds himself thinking how reckless he would be to try to keep that warmth alive.

By the time his fingers had started lowering on her face, Stiles hears her huffing softly when his hand brushes her lips. They immediately part at his touch, letting his thumb trace them as if he wanted to memorize those fully lines with his touch.

(He already has.)

Then her eyelids finally flutter and she slowly opens her eyes.

Lydia lifts her head. He doesn't dare moving his hand away from her face, thumb still resting on her lower lip even when it starts to tremble.

It’s so deep the look they share when their eyes meet. He drinks in her eyes, the relief and desperate love her look holds makes his heart clench at once and they keep staring at each other, closer than before, for what feels like forever to him.

Until eventually Lydia bursts into tears and her head falls heavily on his hand.

Stiles supports her silently, watches her shoulders shake at every sob she lets out and caresses her cheek ever since to comfort her, when finally she calms down.

He moves forward, ignoring the piercing ache at his stomach, and gently presses his lips on hers and somehow the whole situation reminds him of a very similar one that happened no more than two years ago. That time, he was the one panicking though.

They kiss slow, and it’s far from hot. There’s no lust hidden in it, rather a desperate passion that sets peace in his chest at once. Her lips are wet because of her recent cry, and Stiles can taste the salt of her tears on her mouth, sucking at it as if she could breathe better that way.

Lydia pulls apart just a little to catch her breath, before eventually colliding to him once more with a strange urgency. She immediately tangles one hand in the hair at the base of his neck, just like she loves to do when she sits beside him on the passenger seat of the jeep and he would drive her somewhere, elsewhere.

They separate after minutes, or an hour, he’s not sure. He just knows he misses her lips already the moment they leave his and he can't help to stare at them even afterwards, noticing how red and swollen they now are because of him.

She gives him a small smile that warms his heart at once, but Stiles notices a tinge of sadness in it.

He’s about to ask her if she’s okay when Lydia interjects him, “I’ll go call the doctors.”

She places one last peck on his lips before she leaves.

A doctor arrives five minutes later, followed by the Sheriff and Scott, with Lydia closing the line. They give him a short visit, control his blood pressure, his sight and just all general scrutiny that he actually disregards, too focused on the sight of his father and his best friend looking at him with watery eyes and huge smiles of relief.

When the doctors finally give them some space, and the nurses finish changing all his medications, he immediately finds himself wrapped in his father’s arms, feeling a rough yet comforting hand gently grabbing a hold of his shoulder. Only when his dad releases him from his hug Stiles turns to Scott and returns him the pat, a warm look reflected in both their eyes.

“You’re okay, dude.” His friend mutters to him, a hint of emotion still hidden in his tone. “You made it.”

“We were _so_ worried, Stiles.” The sheriff says beside him, still unable to break the contact with his son by resting one hand on his shoulder blades.

“It’s okay dad, I’m fine now,” Stiles tells him softly, reaching his arm with a hand to stroke it in reassurance. The movement causes his abdomen to ache immediately and this time it’s so unexpected he can't help wincing.

“You’ve been diagnosed a third–degree burn,” the doctor suddenly steps in. “And you have a broken rib too, which made you an emergency case. We brought you in surgery to apply a dermal graft on the wound, but the nerves have been attached too so it’ll take a while to recover.” He pauses, only to pick the chart hung on the bed and nods by himself as to verify the situation.

“So… when will he be able to come back home?” The sheriff asks hesitantly.

“He lost a lot of blood, so he’ll definitely need another small transfusion to restore the circulation but, luckily, the burn is not widespread so I reckon it’ll be healed in a couple of weeks if treated right. About your rib, that’ll take you a few days more I believe, boy.” Stiles nods sadly. “But you’ll be fine, we’ll keep you in the hospital for five days more. Later I’ll give you another shot of morphine for the night, you need rest.”

He gets out after muttering a quick “bye sir”, and “excuse me” which Stiles personally finds socially awkward and curious on the other side, thinking how much this doctor could rant about science and medicines and anatomy but gets anxious when has to actually interact.

“So now I can finally have morphine legally, hm?” Stiles deadpans. But his dad throws him one of his homicidal looks, mixed with real concern and surprise that hurries him up at once to add, “Just kidding dad, just kidding.”

The three laugh, more to ease the tension of the last hours than for the joke itself, but it’s enough to cheer him up.

“Hey wait,” the others stop laughing and look at him quizzically, “what about Parrish? Where’s he?”

He regrets the question the moment he finishes the sentence by seeing the dark expression on both Scott and his father faces. They glance at each other for a while, then the sheriff nods slightly at the alpha as to give him permission to talk about the topic, so he goes.

“We– we didn’t find him, Stiles,” Scott confesses sadly. “He had gone already the moment we arrived.”

“He didn’t come to the station either. It’s like he’s disappeared.” The sheriff says.

“Yeah, how you did you guys get there by the way?”  
“Lydia called me.” Scott shrugs.

And now all eyes are on her.

Stiles is suddenly reminded of the presence of her girlfriend who had been standing the whole time in a corner near the entryway, silent.

“Lydia called you?” His eyes, still stuck on her figure, wander up her face to search her eyes but she won’t meet his gaze and decides to look at Scott instead.

“Yeah, she called me on my phone you know. She was freaking out man, she told me you were bleeding out on the ground and that you were badly hurt.”

“But…” Stiles struggles with finding the right words, tears already form in his eyes at the memory of the hellhound strangling Lydia and her arms falling lifelessly at her sides. “Lydia, you were–”

“Parrish left me on the ground and run away. Afterwards I called the 911 and then Scott and your dad as soon as I could. They came basically at the same time but the doctors allowed family only in the ambulance, so Scott drove me here.” She interjects.

Her look is deadly empty as she talks, staring without actually seeing at a spot in front of her.

He keeps looking at her. She keeps avoiding his eyes.

A billion of thoughts and questions start floating in his mind, her weird behaviour not making it easier at all to process the fact that the last memory he has of Lydia is her gasping for air, about to die, while now she shows no sign of any of it.

On the other hand, he also assumes she might be upset as well by recalling all the recent events, including the shock after what Parrish did to them, to _her_ , the worry of knowing him on an operating table and everything in between.

So he doesn’t ask her anything… for now.

A wave of tiredness suddenly hits him from nowhere, his eyelids are heavy, no more under his control by now…

By the time the morphine starts its effect, he hears some distant voices and gentle touches saying him goodbye, helping him to lie down on the bed. He catches the “see you later, buddy” of Scott, a rough stroke of hair from his dad, and the glance of a pair of sparkling green eyes smiling at him, sadly.

* * *

 

He wakes up and those green eyes are still there. They’re not bloodshot anymore, the red has disappeared almost completely now, eyelashes are longer and painted black, the dark circles underneath covered with a layer of foundation that still doesn’t get to mask her from him.

“Hey,” Stiles stretches one hand to cup her cheek. She leans a little onto it, before bending forward and placing a soft kiss to his lips.

She hasn’t pulled over completely yet when she replies with the same tenderness, “Hi, sleeping beauty.”

“So you happen to be the prince?” He smirks amused.

“I have a thing for tights, you know.”

He tries to sit down and support himself with the elbows. Lydia helps him in the process and he immediately feels the warmth of her body pooling over his like a charge of energy. It makes him feel at home.

“By the way,” he continues mischievously as she sits back at his side, “can you believe they were alone and had a double bed all for them but they just _kissed_?” His tone fakes resentment so ridiculously that makes Lydia burst into laughter at once.

“It’s a _Disney_ movie, you idiot,” She hits him softly on one arm, “where men actually reason with the right part of the body.”

“Never heard you complaining, though.”

Lydia rolls her eyes but still leans for another kiss, more passionate this time. She rests one hand on his chest, carefully, and lets the other slide on his neck while her lips move in sync against his, tilting her head a little more to have better access to his mouth.

He does the same, his body instinctively imitates hers and the hand on her cheek moves lower on her jaw, fingers softly pressing on the pulse point underneath her ear, until he finally reaches her neck and settles there. His grip tightens a little to pull her closer.

Her body goes rigid.

It’s just a fraction of second, a dreadful moment in which he feels her swallow under his thumb, her heartbeat increases against his palm and his own heart goes cold.

But then she relaxes and keeps kissing him like nothing happened.

Except it did happen.

Stiles gently pushes her away by the shoulders and she throws him a quizzical glance, as if she wasn’t aware of the changement, as if there was a surreal universe in which Lydia Martin was not smart enough to catch a hint when she sees one.

“What’s wr–”

“What was that?”

She pauses for a minute.

“What was what?”

“Lydia,” he lets out a frustrated noise, like a shaky breath, and adjusts himself in the bed, “why– _how_ you have no sign of what Parrish did to you? You– you have no bruise, no cut, no–”

“Stiles, I wasn’t remotely as badly hurt as you were–”

“You were _dying_ , Lydia!” His tone rises at the memory of it. He wouldn’t want it to be that strong in his mind, he wouldn’t want to think about the fact that he has seen her dying twice already, in front of him. In both cases he felt helpless, and she was slipping away from him. Him, Stiles, the human, the superpower–less… the murderer.

The hell he’s gonna risk to lose her again.

He can tell she’s swallowing back her tears and when she speaks again her voice is nothing but a tremble whisper.

“But I didn’t.” Lydia says, looking away from him.

His eyes soften at hearing her like that. He doesn't answer, but slides one hand up her neck again, gentler this time, fingers brushing slightly her perfect skin like it is porcelain.

She closes her eyes at his touch, and leans just a little. Then, both her hands moves to take his and she brings it to her lips, placing a soft kiss that lingers a while and digs a hot hole on his knuckles.

“It wasn't that bad,” she whispers against his skin, eyes still closed, “I’m fine now, it wasn't that bad.”

He sighs, but eventually takes away his hand and replaces it with his mouth.

He kisses her chastely; he kisses her lips, her cheek, her jaw. He gets to her neck, where once a monstrous hand had stopped the air in her throat, and he kisses it tenderly, several times, and even if there are no marks of aggression, he feels like he could heal all her wounds this way.

He finally kisses the sensitive spot under her earlobe, where her heart is now thudding against his lips, and whispers to her ear, “Okay.”

* * *

 

One day Lydia walks in the room alone, again, for the second time in almost a week.

Since when he started getting better, they all got to convince her to go back home to take care of herself a little, and sleep in an actual bed or eat healthy food with different origin from the hospital cafeteria or the vending machine. After an half hour struggle, she finally gave up.

So here she is, fresh and clean, wearing a soft pink tank top with matching cardigan and a pair of super tight leggings that leave no much to imagination and makes him gulp loudly when she -rather purposely, he’s sure about it– bents over a shelf to adjust some magazines she brought to him to spare the time.

“Are you trying to torture me or something?”

Lydia chuckles and immediately presses a small kiss on his mouth, smiling in the process, “I just have a yoga lesson later.” She says contently.

“And you think you’re going dressed like _this_?”

“Okay, first of all it’s 37 degrees °C. outside, I won’t wear a tracksuit of yours only because you have trust issues,” she states, still smirking, “And second, I told you a billion times there are ladies only in my class.”

“You know this doesn’t help at all.” Stiles pouts. “Some of them are really pretty.”

“Well, they are indeed…” Lydia concedes with a malicious tone.

“Lydia!”

Then she’s laughing, so hard and purely he’s positive he had missed this sound for a whole week, and Stiles just now realizes how addictive Lydia’s laughter can be.

She leans in to meets his lips, still curved upwards for the smile he was wearing and suddenly the time stops around them. They make out for a while, her lips taste like ice cream, which makes him want it always more, forever.

Eventually they separate, his hand still tangled in her hair while the other rests above hers on his lap.

“Hey,” he says casually when pulling apart, “Where’s Scott?”

He knows Malia is still busy with the summer school but it’s been  two days since he saw his best friend.

Her expression darkens visibly, and dread starts making room in his chest at once, but before he has the time to freak out Lydia interjects him, “He’s with Malia.”

She sighs heavily before continuing, “Remember that tree that fell in front of the clinic and blocked the entrance?” Stiles nods, “Well, once they’ve been positive you were doing good, Malia and Scott tried to take it away again… but she got hurt.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles inquiries, because he feels like she hadn't gotten to the point yet.

“She dislocated her shoulder in the attempt of lifting the trunk. And she’s not healing, Stiles.” She says looking down at the floor.

Stiles stays still for a while, the blinking of his eyes the only sign of motion. After a pause he murmurs like a secret, “That’s not possible, Lydia.”

But she slowly lifts her chin and stares back at him with deadly eyes, “You know it is.”

And suddenly he’s on the school bus, in the middle of nowhere, and Scott beside him about to faint at any moment, his shirt dirtied with fresh blood that didn't show sign of ceasing the flood…

He lets out a shaky breath and instinctively strokes her hand in reassurance. Lydia’s eyes have become a little wetter now, and he knows how close she got to the werecoyote in the last months, so he’s not surprised by her worry.

Stiles closes the distance and brushes his lips to hers, a soft kiss that has her melt at once.

“She’ll be fine,” he whispers to her. Their foreheads are pressed, eyes still closed just to focus on each other’s breathing. And it's all peaceful for a while; there are no ghost riders ready to assault him, no beast to cut her throat flat or crazy doctor to drill holes in her head. They have a lifetime ahead, and there's no way he’s not gonna spend it to make her happy.

“We’ll figure it out,” he says softly, so quietly if there were other people in the room she’d be the only one able to hear it. “We always do.”

Lydia nods and pulls him closer even more.

“I love you,” she whispers, “You know that, right?”

“So much.”

* * *

 

He got dismissed from the hospital after a week.

His father is rarely at home because of work. Now that there’s a deputy less and a monster more to look for, things got pretty wild at the station so it’s Lydia to take care of him most of times.

They spend a ridiculous amount of time together at home, alone, and it feels so domestic and ordinary **.** Stiles can feel his heart clench every so often for wanting this kind of life to become a routine forever.

Things seem to go back to normal: he’s taking his meds and feeling better day after day, Lydia is happier with every scar that replace a wound, Scott gets back to work at the clinic with his busy schedule…

Although Malia isn't healing yet.

She had gotten back to summer school and she is slowly getting better but still, being a werecoyote with super senses and glowing eyes, she would’ve had to be fully recovered by now.

It’s like she had become a human all at once.

Scott would often go to her place to make sure she was okay, sometimes he’d stay for the night if she was alone, as long as Mr. Tate allowed him.

(He never used to allow Stiles then, though.)

Despite the repetitive denies when asked about a possible relationship, Stiles is pretty positive they are both glad to be the ones with super senses among the four of them.

It was an hilarious situation initially, until one day Scott comes over to his place and confesses him how scared he is for the werecoyote.

“She should’ve have been okay by now, but her shoulder is still badly injured, the cuts left _scars_ … I’ve never had a scar after healing.” He tells him with pleading eyes, as if he is hoping in a sparkle of genius from him to figure it out.

“Plus, she was never a human,” the alpha continues, looking away from his friend. “She’s not used to this, she’s having a really hard time to handle it and–” he sighs, on the edge of tears by now. “God, she can't even transform.”

“What do you mean, Scott?” Stiles urges.

“Malia tried to put on the claws a couple of days ago but she just… can't. I’m so worried.”

“Scotty, I’m sure she’ll be okay. You can't just _turn into_ a human from nothing right?”

“I guess not.” Scott murmurs, dejected.

On the other side of the table, Lydia, who’s been eating her dinner silently the whole time, suddenly stands up and collects the empty dishes.

She turns around looking down at the floor without saying a word.

* * *

 

“I was thinking...”

“Mhm I love when you do that.” He interrupts her with a kiss.

Lydia chuckles but still leans in to meet his lips. She comes closer to him and carefully puts her legs over his lap, the residual of the popcorns she made for their CSI marathon forgotten on the table by now. “We could throw a party this weekend,” she lets out casually.

“A party?” Now he is truly surprised. But then she nods shyly with a shrug.

“It’s been awhile since we gathered with all the pack for doing something for _fun_ you know… and it could be a good idea to ease the nerves after everything we’ve been through in the past couple of weeks.”

He considers that for a minute while instinctively his hand starts stroking her legs softly. Maybe she’s right after all, although none of them might be currently physically nor mentally on point for a party, they all could really use some free time alone.

“Yeah, I think it’s a good idea.”

“You do?” She beams.

“Of course.” He places a kiss to her forehead to remark his statement. “We can’t stay here though, my dad will have to work on some papers even at home.”

“It’s okay, my mom is gonna be out of town for a couple of days this weekend.”

Stiles can’t help the smirk on his face,“Interesting.” They’re so close now their chests are practically touching, her free hand is playing mischievously with the top bottoms of his flannel and on response both his hands had slipped under the hem of her shirt and started drawing circles on her skin, he feels the goosebumps forming on her arms at his actions which makes his smirk only wider.

Then one hand comes to rest flat on the small of her back and he pulls her even  closer, so close he can feel the mound of her breasts pressed against his side and it’s enough to turn him on at once. They meet halfway in a chaste kiss that soon turns heater, angrier, for they are both well aware of the amount of time they’ve spent so far without their own usual intimacy.

That thought and the way her tongue moves inside his mouth makes him unwillingly groan against her lips, which curve into a light smile when he does so.

He had just shifted forward, ignoring the aching pain at his side, to part her legs, fingers slowly trailing her bare thigh when her voice stops him, “Stiles, you can't.” She says softly, trying to keep her tone steady. She clearly doesn't succeed when he bites her neck without any warning and she lets out a lovely moan.

“You were saying?”

Lydia pulls away slowly, yet reluctantly he can tell, for the way her whole body flinches at the lack of his own, the same feeling he has every time they separate. She stares at him in the eyes with a scolding look, forced somehow, because a tender smile still lingers on her lips but when she speaks her tone is exaggeratedly serious, “Do you have any idea of how much painful would it be for you to have an orgasm in your current condition?”

“What?” Stiles says half-amused half-surprised.

Lydia still remains super serious and sighs in exasperation, his lips are so much pursued in attempt to repress a chuckle that they probably had turned white by now. “Your muscles would contract with spasms, your body stiffens, which would hurt like a bitch and since you have both dermal and bone injuries, I reckon the pain would be likely to radiate.”

“On the other hand,” Stiles interjects her at once with a playful sneer, “an orgasm also releases endorphins, that would automatically lessen the feeling of pain.”

“Those are released by the brain though,” her lips contort in a pout. She shrugs and suddenly looks at him with fake pity that doesn’t get to hide her amusement, “I don’t think there’s a chance you could get one, you see.”

“Oh. That’s what you think then?” He grins against her skin as he nuzzles her neck teasingly and automatically lock his hands at her waist, stroking just a little to tug her at him.

Lydia gets the hint and immediately climbs onto his lap, carefully, and caressing his wounded side in the process. He shivers at the contact  but goosebumps are suddenly replaced by a familiar wave of warmth when her mouth touches his hotly, yet so gently to leave him eager for more.

Stiles focused on the trail her fingertips trace around his devoured skin, right above his ribs, how they sync their ups and downs with his slow breathing, how they brush against his bones as that could be enough to fix them.

Their lips touch lightly still separated, and they remain like this for while, sharing each other’s breathes for while until he feel her trembling slightly above him and his grip tightens around her thighs at once to support her.  Then finally, _finally_ , she leans and presses her full mouth on his chapped one. It’s one kiss, slow and hot, tender and romantic at the same time, that lingers on his lips and gets to his soul, it pools warmth all over his body, it lights his heart and makes it beat faster if possible out of his ribcage. It keeps him alive for now.

He’s on his way to catch her lips once more when she abruptly pulls apart and slides both her hands up to his chest.

“I’m gonna message the others about the party.” She says softly.

“Okay.” He replies with as much tenderness and ignoring the disappointment of his whole body.

She kisses him on the cheek, before slipping away with care to not hurt him.

Lydia walks away to the kitchen to grab her phone.

By the time he’s left alone on the couch, the wound starts aching again.

* * *

 

The rendezvous was set for the 8 p.m. but Stiles can’t really recall a time in which the whole pack has actually been on time for something. He’s surely not the one to talk since he took him over ten years to get to the woman she loves.

He watches her from the opposite side of room, sitting on the armrest of a fancy leather armchair that he knows belonged to her grandfather and it was given to Mrs. Martin after his death. He also knows she would probably kill them both bare if she only got to know the way they fucked on that chair just a couple of weeks ago. The memory makes a soft smile appear on his face at once, and despite the fuzzy sight due to the spirit Stiles still manages to focus his eyes on the beautiful redhead at the kitchen, on the way her laughter seems to raise over the loud music of the speakers, on how prettily her loosen curls shape her naked shoulders, how grace her hands look when she gesticulates while talking with Malia about some topic he can’t distinguish.

He drinks her in and slowly takes another sip of his gin that Mason had the decency to buy for the humans’ sake, still with his eyes locked in her figure.

Once no drop of alcohol has remained, he sets the glass down on the coffee table, determined to get to Lydia although every cell of the body claimed his drunkenness, so he stands up quickly. Too quickly.

He straightens. His rib protests, his skin joins it. Stiles winces silently.

Lydia, from the kitchen, eighty feet exact away from him,  turns around to face him with a worried look.

And he really should be shock about it -how overwhelming the connection could be sometimes– but the reality is, he never felt anything as much right in his whole life to rack his brains for it.

He glimpses at Lydia politely dismissing the werecoyote and with a few long strides she’s by his side.

“What’s wrong, Stiles?”

He doesn't answer but simply lifts the hem of the flannel and his fingers are suddenly stained in blood.

“Shit, the stitches.” He mutters.

In the meantime Malia had joined them and her lips contort in a grimace when she spots the open wound. “Ugh, looks kinda bad.”

“It could’ve been worse.” Lydia interjects flatly, sounding suddenly serious. “I’ll go take the emergency box upstairs.” She exchanges a knowing look with Malia, who nods at her, before kissing Stiles on the cheek and leaving them alone.

There’s an awkward silence for a few minutes in which he doesn't really know where to look at, so he limits to stare at the ground, shifting his weight from a leg to the other ever since.

Then Malia breaks the silence with a cough, “So… you don't look that bad for one who survived death.”

“What?” He blurts out, almost choking on his own words.

Malia chuckles, “Relax, I’m just quoting the nurses. You were really badly hurt when they found you.”

“Yes Lydia told me… I guess I’ve been lucky.” Says Stiles unsure.

Malia just  smiles in response and they get back to the silence for a while, but it's not awkward anymore.

“What about your arm?”

Malia flinches and looks at her shoulder with a mix of worry and disgust, “It doesn't hurt so much but it’s not healing either. Not in the way it should at least.”

“You’ll be fine, we’ll figure it out.” He strokes her fine shoulder to mean it.

“Yeah, it’s been tough enough to go from coyote to werecoyote, I don't know if I could handle another transformation to be honest.”

“This one wouldn't include shape-shiftings at least.” He deadpans.

“I kinda wished this was the point.”

He’s about to reply and tell her what an amazing human she would be, that powers are not what define you, even though he’s pretty sure she’s been told a billion times already by Scott, when Lydia gets back to them carrying the small white suitcase in one hand.

“Let’s go to the bathroom, c’mon.” Lydia urges softly.

They walk through the small crowd, passing a very drunk Liam intent on improvising a probably self-igniting cocktail that makes him stumble on Stiles when goes past him.

“Dude you okay?”

“‘M ‘lright, thansh–” He doesn't finish the sentence and bursts into laughter, causing the liquid to spill out the glass a little. He’s so not okay.

Stiles gives him an amused pat but he’s not able to do more because Lydia pulls him behind her and pushes him into the bathroom abruptly.

“Hey, how’s Liam drunk?”

“How bad is it?” Lydia ignores his question and starts unbutton the flannel, taking it off in one fast move. She stares at the bloody cut for a moment, analyzing the situation silent, before opening the kit and take some swabs, the disinfectant and the gauze out the box.

Then she drops on her knees and he can't help the gasp.

“Lydia–”

She starts tamponing the cut and polish the blood away carefully, but he still can see the smirk on her face despite her fake attempt to hide it.

“This is terribly hot and you know it.” He whimpers trying to keep his voice steady.

“Shh, you’re moving too much.” She slaps whispering instead, while she moves  forwards to grab the bandage behind him and automatically presses her chest to his stomach in the process.

“You such an evil queen.”

“Thought we agreed on me being the prince here.” She smirks and starts wrapping the material around his bare torso. The contact of her fingertips makes him shiver at once.

“Thought you could multitask.”

She makes a fake noise of indignation and Stiles can feel her breathing right above the hem of the jeans when she gasps. “You had plenty of demonstrations of my multitasking skills.”

“Mmh, I might need a refresh.”

She smiles at him, with her huge shimmering eyes that he uses to melt in, and suddenly everything is green and sparkling golden.

A moment later her hands are on his hips, her mouth sweetly on his happy trail, going down, lower, hotter… placing wet kisses that has him with his head thrown back when it reaches the waistband of his boxer briefs. He can’t help the instinct and tangles his fingers in her hair just behind the scalp.

“Whatever I am,” she whispers, pausing only to lick down on his shaft and giving him a gentle stroke at the same time, “I’m yours.”

* * *

 

It’s the lack of warmth that wakes him up in the middle of night, lying next to Lydia in the surprisingly comfy couch of the living room that Scott and Malia had left the couple last night with a fit of gallantry, and accepted to sleep on the armchairs instead. The youngest ones had had to leave the party a few hours before because of Liam’s –still inexplicable– intoxication.

He feels Lydia’s body slowly shifting beside his and even with his eyes still closed from tiredness, he can almost picture the smile on her face at the sight of him sleeping. The same one he always wears when she spots her like this.

The cushions lifts a little when she stands up, from the direction of her steps he can tell she’s heading to the kitchen.

“Hey.” He hears her whisper, and it’s surprised to know she’s not alone.

“Can’t sleep?” It’s Scott.

“Not really, I just woke up like, super angry. You?”

“Malia snores.”

Lydia corks up a laughter that ends up being more like a chuckle.

“So…,” she says when she puts herself together, “Is there anything going on between you two?”

“What?” The tone of shock in Scott’s voice makes Stiles roll his eyes annoyingly. Did he really deadass think they didn’t notice?

“Scott,” scolds Lydia.

Scotts sighs. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean _you don’t know_?”

“I don’t know Lydia, we got pretty close when Stiles was forgotten and now she’s hurt and I’m often at her place to take care of her and the other day we kissed but–”

“ _You kissed_?” Lydia hisses quietly.

“– then everything got back to normal.” Scott finishes. “It’s complicated, Lyds.”

There’s a pause before Lydia breaks the silence, her voice softer now, “You like her though, don’t you?”

Scott hesitates for a moment. “Of course I do.” He sighs again, “But we started getting closer when we both felt lonely, we never had a moment without the supernatural and before all of this she was so into Stiles and I was–”

The sentence fades away in the room. The “waiting for Kira” still gets to Stiles’ ears though, just as he’s positive Lydia gets it as well.

“Besides she was the one in first place to put the distance after the kiss. Maybe she didn’t like how I kiss.”

“Believe me, it’s not that,” states Lydia knowingly, and it hits him just now that she actually _does_ know how Scott kisses. Despite the old memory, it can’t help the cringe and he’s glad they’re too busy talking to notice him between the pillows.

“Then I don’t get it,” Scott blurts, slightly exasperated.

“Maybe she’s trying to figure it out as well,” Lydia urges softly to calm him down, “It’s not that she’s too familiar with boys and feelings, you know? Just give her time.”

Scott doesn’t answer. Stiles takes the silence for a nod. There’s another pause and he’s too curious now so he raises on one elbow just enough to peek over the armrest of the couch and glance at Lydia and Scott disentangling from a hug.

He watches Lydia lifting on her tiptoes and grabbing a can of jam, while Scott behind her is looking for food in the fridge.

She tries to open the can with a knife for the pressure.

“Shit!”

The knife suddenly drops from her hand where now he spots a cut crossing her palm. He’s on his way to stand up, an instinct that he developed through the years whenever she heard her screaming.

But Scott is faster and neither of them notices his presence despite the fact that he’s now sitting straight on the sofa.

Scott takes her hand in both his at once and closes his eyes.

Lydia winces at first but then relaxes, unlike Stiles, and waits for his powers to have its effect on her.

They wait.

And wait.

And nothing happens.

“S–Scott?” Lydia mutters, her hand fully marred with blood by now, just like Scott’s.

The alpha doesn’t answer, his eyes are open in terror now and he just keeps staring at their joined hands in confusion. He swallows hard and Stiles can almost feel the nausea of his best friend making room into his own stomach as well.

But Lydia is bleeding and he can’t think straight anymore.

“What are you waiting for, Scotty? Take her pain!” He shouts, standing up abruptly.

Lydia and Scott turn both to him simultaneously, surprised initially, but then they get back to stare at their hands remembering what the main concern is.

Scott’s eyes are pure dread. They keep darting from Lydia’s hands to his own, where no black stream is flooding.

Finally his eyes go back to meet his, still furious. But Stiles’ look softens at once when he catches the tears in the werewolf’s glance.

Scott’s voice is just a quite tremble when he speaks.

“I can’t.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Catherine](https://youaretoosmart.tumblr.com/) (cave_canem): the most sensitive and beautiful person i've been lucky enough to know, thank you for taking care of my writing.  
> [Sydney](https://stilesprefers-screamers.tumblr.com/) (loverofthelight24): my evil twin, i love you so much Syd. You're always there to support me and i don't have enough space to write how thankful and glad i am to have you as friend
> 
> \+ shout out to [Fer](https://lydiastxles.com/) (lydiastxles), my brazilian babe, for having seen this chapter growing up <3
> 
> This story wouldn't exist without readers so _please_ , feedback my children!!


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [...] she finds herself trapped with her back pressed against a trunk and the dog snarling in front of her, ready to assault her like she is a pray.  
> It moves slow, testing her, his glare fixed in her eyes, and it looks at Lydia with so much intensity for a moment she thinks it’s human.  
> Then her mind starts processing it.  
> The bestiary. The pack suspecting. Lydia helping. Stiles figuring it out.  
> It’s not a coincidence.  
> It’s _war_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy birthday Farah (@slowburnotptrash); you bring nothing but light to people's lives, and you certainly did to mine. I love you - this chapter is for you.**

_ Two’s a coincidence. _

* * *

 

 

“I heard it Scott, it was his voice.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah,” she said breathlessly. “It was tugging me, and then I felt it. I felt his touch, his–”

Love? Can you feel the love of a person you don't even remember the face of?

She swallowed back the lump in her throat, “He begged me to not forget him.”

Scott didn't answer. Instead, he folded her in a hug. Between his arms, Lydia let the tears fall onto her cheeks.

“What if I can't remember him, Scott?”

“You will,” he promised. “I believe in you. You’re the one who always figures it out.” 

For a very brief and almost imperceptible moment, she heard the clang of a snare. It was so flebile she thought she’d imagined it.

 

* * *

 

“How’s Scott?” It’s the first thing she says when Stiles crosses her entryway. 

“Better,” he collapses on the couch next to her and folds her shoulders, placing a gentle kiss on her temple to greet her. “He’s kinda frustrated, you know, and confused, but his powers are definitely stronger than Malia’s or Liam's.” 

“Did she heal at least?” 

“Yeah, she can't shift yet and feels weak sometimes but her shoulder is okay now.” 

Lydia nods.  _ It’s all coincidence  _ she keeps saying to herself.  _ This has nothing to do to what they did... _

_ What I did.  _

_ “ _ Hey,” Stiles’ voice stops her run of thought. “I know that look way too well, Martin.” 

She blinks at him, “What look?” 

“Don't start blaming yourself. This can't possibly be your fault, Lyds.” 

He cups her cheek and strokes it with his thumb, gently moving a lock of strawberry blond hair and placing it behind her ear. It’s so cliché, but she still feels her chest burn inside. 

There was a time when Lydia hated cliché, after someone ruined it for her, with her broken heart and the scars she then thought would never be healed. What was left of her were scattered pieces inside and ruined skin outside. A beautiful mosaic that lost  _ so many pieces.  _

Until Stiles found them. 

And that’s why she can't help the goosebumps forming at his touch, both for the feeling of his fingers on her skin, that she discovered to be addictive, and for how scary it is that he can read her  _ so well. _

“Okay,” she hears herself saying, like a distant, robotic voice that’s trying to learn its play.

They cuddle for a while. Stiles pulls her closer and eventually they fall on the sofa, laying in silence with the only sound of his heartbeat against her hear.

“You know,” Stiles starts casually, “Scott invited us at his place for a pack meeting today.” 

“A pack meeting?” Something clicks in alert inside her.

“Yeah, he wants to discuss about what’s happening lately and he figured that maybe there’s something in the bestiary that could help us… and since we’re the only ones who know a bit of Latin–” 

“I know a  _ lot _ .” 

“Right, you do,” he smirks. “That's why we need you. So, we good to go?” 

 

_ “A life for a help. Two lives –double help.”  _

 

“I don't know. Stiles…”

“What’s wrong?” 

And now he’s drawing lovely paths on her hip with his fingertips, and his other hand is steady on her jaw, his eyes literally  _ glow  _ as they lock in hers with so much intensity they seem to eat her entire soul with the only act of staring. They’re so honest, and pure and she’s  _ not.  _

_ “ _ I just don't think the bestiary could give any answer,” she lies. “What’s happening to Scott, Malia and Liam wasn't due to a monster’s attack, for what we know there’s no creature involved.” 

“Well maybe it didn't show up yet. We can check out some relatable ones and make hypotheses… besides, there’s no harm in trying.” Stiles shrugs, and gives one of those soft reassuring smile she would love as usual if she wasn't feeling trapped in a no-way-out tunnel. 

“Fine,” she concedes eventually. 

His smile widens and he slowly leans for her lips. She can't help the sigh when he finally kisses her, so tenderly and lovingly her heart skips a bit for how fast it pounds. And yet, all she can think of when his tongue makes its way inside her mouth, is how she will even make her out all of this. 

 

_ “I believe in you. You’re the one who always figures it out.” _

 

* * *

 

She honestly didn't remember the bestiary to be  _ that _ hard. 

Last time Lydia had to use it, she was walking across the BHHS’ courtyard at night, but she had been too distracted then by the presence of the brunette boy inches from her side to actually pay attention to the content itself. 

She remembered the roar of a thunder filling her ears the moment Stiles shut the book closed abruptly, as well as the realization of what that meant.

Now in the McCall’s kitchen, the alpha shoves the old book on the table with so much strength, the slam echoes all around them for a moment.

When she hears the rumble of the storm in her head again, louder than ever, Lydia feels her blood go cold at once. 

She can tell she’s the only one who heard that- not news- for the way the rest of the pack keeps chatting with each other. She feels the comfort of Stiles’ hand on her lower back, as if he had sensed something was wrong with her without even being aware of that. He keeps her grounded, and at least for now, it works. 

“Last time it happened, it was because we were all kind of apart. Whoever this is; maybe it’s trying to divide us and make us weak?” Liam offers.

“No, last time we were weak. This time we’re basically humans. There's a difference,” Malia mutters. The frustration is palpable in her tone and Lydia can only imagine how hard must be for the werecoyote, more than for the others, who never experienced a life without super senses. 

“When it happened last year it was for a psychological cause mostly,” Scott interjects, “this time it’s physical. We’re weak, we can't heal, we can’t see or smell, we get drunk … we can barely transform.” And he can't help but glimpse at Malia who in the meantime had lowered her look and just kept staring at the ground. Scott pulls her a little closer to comfort her, almost instinctively.

“I don't think there’s a connection,” Stiles finally states. 

He starts leafing through the pages lazily, his eyes locked somewhere beyond the book in a sort of trance that Lydia now associates with his “pre-investigation” mood. After that, he would collect all the different strings and start creating a colored mess on his walls and eventually find a solution. 

She’d be fascinated, like she always is when she feels like she can literally  _ sense _ his brain working. She used to spend hours observing his back twitching in front of the board, the way the tip of his tongue comes out ever since when he struggles with a hint, or how his eyes sparkle golden with excitement when he turns around and shouts,  _ ‘I got it!” _ just before dropping a happy kiss on her mouth.

Now she’s just  _ scared _ he could do the same. 

“Stiles? What is it?” Scott’s voice brings her back, and everyone is suddenly staring at her boyfriend quizzically.

Stiles shakes his head, his look still thoughtful as his eyebrows frown to focus more. 

“I was just thinking... the last and only one time something was taken away from us -on big scale, I mean-, that was your memory.” 

“The ghost riders,” Malia surmises.

Stiles nods. “It never happened before that someone had taken something that’s our own, like literally inside us. You know what I mean?” 

Everyone nods slowly, as if they were trying to follow him without having figured the point yet. 

“First it was the memory of me, now it’s about superpowers…and the only thing that comes to mind that could differ the Wild Hunts from the other bad guys is that they were the only ones from another dimension.” 

The air stops in her lungs. She’s not breathing. 

“What do you mean?” Malia asks.

“I mean that  _ maybe _ the cause of all of this,” Stiles says, gesturing towards Malia, Scott and Liam, ”comes from another world as well.” 

“Stiles–,” Lydia has to clear her voice once she hears how feeble it really is. “Stiles, it’s not like it's  _ rule _ that if something is taken from us then must be due to some sort of ultra-dimensional creature.”

“I’m not saying it  _ must _ be so, Lyds, but it could be a path!”

“Or a  _ coincidence.”  _

“Guys,” Scott steps in with a scolding tone. “We have to check the whole bestiary anyways, so I say we can start by researching those creatures while looking at Stiles’ theory first. We can discuss it while translating Archaic Latin, right?” 

His voice is gentle, no sort of provocation is hidden behind his tone, but Lydia still feels like she has no option to answer his question. She limits to nod but Stiles’ look burns holes in her head as she refuses to meet his eyes. 

They spend about two hours researching.

All she can do to stick with her agreement, is to deviate the pack from all the mythological creatures, but it’s quite a struggle to avoid something you barely know anything about.

Lydia never clearly spots the knights on the book’s pages, and luckily Stiles never alludes or goes deeper into his theory ever again, so that except for looking for creatures with the main aim of ‘sucking powers’, their research turns out to be way more general than what they’d planned it to be.

They read about  _ succubi _ and  _ incubi _ , demons that cause the deterioration of sanity and mental health by persuading people, mostly sexually; or even more exhotic and improbable creatures like  _ impudulus  _ or one named  _ leannán sídhe  _ which Stiles was barely able to pronounce _.  _ Simply, any type of monster with vampiric or seductive skills that, in a way or another, do require a physical encounter. Which, as Lydia repeatedly reminds Stiles, never actually happened.

The drive back home is silent, except for the nervous drumming of Stiles’ fingers on the wheel and a constant sighing of exasperation he lets out ever since when, she can tell, he mentally skims all the creatures they just checked in order to put a logic into the situation. 

How can she blame him? She would act the same if she didn’t know there’s  _ not _ a logic in there. Or at least it can’t be found in the bestiary, for now. 

And it makes her sick to see him so disappointed, to see him dejected and clueless when she knows he could perfectly figure it out in a heartbeat if she could only  _ speak _ .

It eats her inside– to not be able to help him. To have all the right cards to win and not being able to play.

The only thought that gives her that light solace to make her climb onto the bed next to him and bury her face in the crook of his neck, as he slips one arm around her waist to tug her closer, is the certainty he’s not a pawn on that gaming table. 

She made sure of that. 

 

* * *

 

“You guys wanna split up?”

“No!” Stiles and Scott shout in unison, just before sharing a knowing smirk that gets Lydia slightly confused, even though she decides not to ask anything.

They had walked for over a hour by now, with Lydia in the front line, Stiles right by her side, and the alpha watching their backs from behind. 

None of her protests were strong enough to avoid the inevitable, even though she tried so hard to argue her own reasons for which it wasn’t really a good idea to go out at night, into the woods, on a full moon. 

Truth is, it could’ve been a sunny day with no clouds and singing birds and Lydia would’ve found a bilion other excuses to not enter the forest and look for the thing she’s tamed for years. But surely, all those characteristics gave her a more convincing topic of debate… that yet she lost. 

(Damn those puppy eyes.)

Since the were-s’ situation hadn’t changed much neither during that night of full moon, Scott had insisted for checking out the woods outside to find a hint, whichever, either to hopefully meet another werewolf maybe in his same condition or maybe not, or to spot the place Lydia had hoped to not see ever again in her life, all those years. 

But of course, the Nemeton is always on their top list when it comes to supernatural issues. 

Deep inside, Lydia doesn’t believe that any of Scott’s suppositions might actually have a logical basis, so she’s not that worried about the boys to find out anything right now. But she’s not so much chill either. Every time they got to spot the stump, nothing good happened, and most of all, none of it was in some way expected by the pack. 

Not a real pack this time though. Liam had gone out of town with Mason for the weekend, a short trip they had pushed back since the start of school because of the Ghost Riders. As for Malia, Scott said she was still too weak and they both agreed on her to stay at home.

And of course, being Stiles Malia’s ex boyfriend, and Lydia one of her best friends, neither of them believed the alpha. They just limited to grin at each other with a knowing glance, spotting the light hoe of red on Scott’s cheeks as he stated so. 

“Do you sense something?” Stiles then asks softly next to her, his big hand resting flat on the small of her back as a sign of protection she still isn’t used to completely. 

Lydia shakes her head and looks away from him, although his eyes don't stop from searching hers.

“I’m sorry.” He then lets out, getting closer to her a little bit. 

That is so unexpected Lydia almost stumbles on her own feet. She looks up at him with wide eyes, still walking, and blinks at him in confusion. 

“For what?” 

“I saw how much you argued with Scott for not coming here,” he sighs. “If we find it– I know how hard must be for you to see it again after what happened there…” 

He pauses but Lydia’s still quiet. She’s barely breathing, which allows him to keep talking.

“Last time you were there, you–” 

“I know.” She breathes out roughly. She knows. She can't remember because she was lying down between the leaves, half covered in blood while still without senses, but she does know what happened there and afterwards. 

She also knows he still can't help but blame himself for that, not even after everything he’s done for her, after she told him over and over again he’s the only reason for she’s still breathing by his side.  _ You saved me.  _ She had whispered him so many times when they would cuddle tangled in the bedsheets of his room, it became a mantra by now.  _ You came back.  _

He used to nod in response. Every time with his eyes shut and an unconvinced frown on his forehead. Every time followed by a kiss that let him avoid the talk to get any further or deeper in the topic.

“Stiles, it’s okay.” 

“No it’s not.” He snaps, quickly rubbing his face with one hand to remark the frustration. “He fucking drilled a hole in your head. He could’ve-”

“Stiles.” Abruptly, she stops walking and places herself in front of him, forcing him to stop as well. She glimpses Scott doing the same behind them, and slowly distance himself to give them some privacy, faking a sudden interest in a rotten trunk. 

Stiles still looks away from her, his thin lips pursued so much that they’ve turned white, and Lydia can see his eyes becoming wet already despite his attempts to hide it. 

“Stiles, look at me.” 

He doesn’t. So she cups his face and turns him to face her. Her hands are rough at first, her movements rude because why can’t he just forgive himself? Why doesn’t he get it? That every time she looks at him she feels safe. That when he holds her she finds home in his arms and he’s the first person to ever taught her you can feel that way with  _ someone _ and not just with something. That he’s the first one who left but came back to her and saved her. She’s alive thanks to him. She’s literally living  _ for _ him, now.

“Look at me,” she repeats, and this time there’s so much tenderness in her voice he can’t help a tear to cross his cheek. She wipes it off with her thumb. 

They stare at each other with such intensity for a moment she forgets they’re in the middle of a forest, looking for a mythical stump at night. It’s just them, with their fears, the nightmares and a hidden path for peace they seem to have lost track of long time ago by now.

“I’m with you now,” she whispers. “I’m not leaving you.” 

“I love you.” 

Lydia nods imperceptibly and stretches one hand behind his neck, gently pulling him down to meet her lips. 

She doesn’t even care of the presence of Scott  some feet away from them, she knows he probably overheard the conversation –she’s not sure if he’s still able to though– but he looks like he got it, and give the couple the time they need.

Stiles’ eyes shutter in shock initially, then as if he was suddenly brought back from his nightmares he reacts; his hands find their way to her hips and go to rest on her lower back, right above her ass, pulling her closer to him in the process. She lets him; as long as their body touching gives him his sanity back, as long as he needs to  _ feel _ her alive in order to be so as well, she lets him do everything. 

She slides her arms around his neck and deepens the kiss at the same time, moving her mouth in sync with his as he bites her lips softly. Enough to give her pleasure. Never, ever, hurting her. 

She’s lost in the kiss, suddenly those lips and the warmth they pool inside her are the only thing Lydia can focus on. 

Until they’re not. 

A strange, yet familiar sense of disorientation strikes her at once, so unexpected she loses her balance for a moment. Stiles jerks forward to support her in a heartbeat, but the arm that’s wrapped around her waist feels so light against her body, as if she wasn’t even here with him. 

“What is it?” She hears Scott urge, now next to her as well. But she’s too dizzy to reply, and none of the boys in front of her feel so concrete like the view that suddenly shows up beyond the trees. 

Stiles is still hugging her when she hears them. 

The voices never leave her, she got used of that. She just didn't expect them to coming out from  _ dogs _ .

Her lips haven’t separated from Stiles’ completely yet when she spots them towering on the Nemeton, their green eyes visible even through the darkness of the night. 

Lydia reacts instinctively, pushing Stiles aside and causing him to stumble a few feet away, as Scott makes his way in front of the couple to shield them, a reflex developed through the years. It clicks for him just once he’s standing one step away from the first dog, that he’s not strong enough now to fight it. 

_ Them _ . Three giant, black dogs, with sparkling eyes and a growl that echoes between the fangs and gets to Lydia’s ears clear as a ring, despite the distance. They jerk forward, barking and revealing a volume that she knows just can’t belong to an ordinary dog, just like their eyes, colored with the same green hue she had seen not so much time ago on the Hellhound. 

Even without shifting fully, Scott ends up being quite fast all the same, probably a residual of his ‘lost’ powers that thank God hadn’t left him for good yet. 

He jumps and throws himself with all his weight on the first dog, which barely feels the blow and reacts with a furious growl, followed by another charge towards the alpha. 

This time Scott is faster, smarter. Glimpsing at the other two mastiffs, he quickly grabs a tough rock from behind him and hurls it away. It hits the dog on the front line, and the blow is so violent this time the animal flings down, rolls over and bumps into the others. 

Allison would be so proud of him knowing the great bowler he became.

The smile doesn't last for long though, as Lydia is suddenly approached by one of the beasts that got up for first, and she finds herself trapped with her back pressed against a trunk and the dog snarling in front of her, ready to assault her like she is a pray. 

It moves slow, testing her, his glare fixed in her eyes, and it looks at Lydia with so much intensity for a moment she thinks it’s human. 

Then her mind starts processing it. 

The bestiary. The pack suspecting. Lydia helping. Stiles figuring it out. 

It’s not a coincidence. 

It’s  _ war. _

“Please,” Lydia begs, her trembling voice revealing the edge of a crisis. 

The mastiff gets closer. With one quick move it twitches; she steps back, until she remembers she can’t. So without even realizing she had already started to wiggle out of his burden, Lydia finds herself on the ground with a razor-clawed pawn crushing her chest and the black muzzle inches away for her face.

She hears the shouts of the boys distantly, buzzing in her ears like a radio, while they fight their own battle somewhere near to her, still too far away. 

But the only scream Lydia feels right now is the one rising in her throat, growing so much and so rapidly she thinks it might have become a rope around her neck by now, for how much she feels suffocating by it. 

She tries to use her powers but she’s struggling to breath, the claws of the dog starts sinking in her flesh and she’s seeing stars by now. Two, bright green stars hovering over her and fading, fading, fading… 

She wonders what would explode first, the fragile bones of her ribcage or her vocal chords, containing a scream that counts for two lives.

She went so far, did so much to stay alive for him.  _ With _ him.

It can’t be over like this.

And the moment she thinks so, as delivered to heaven, her chest swells when the animal collapses on the ground next to her.  

Lydia coughs heavily as she tries to sit up, ignoring the ache of her body and the stinging smell of blood on her shirt. 

“Lydia. Lydia you okay? C’mon…” Her sight focuses back, and the sharpen, solid figure of Scott McCall shows up like a ray of sunshine through the darkness. She literally can’t find a better association to define him, as he circles her waist and helps her out to stand up. 

The pain quickly pools over her whole body, causing Lydia to flinch at the slightest movement. 

“Stiles.” She urges, as soon as her throat stops hurting and she can speak again. “Stiles.” It’s the only thing she’s able to pronounce. Lydia keeps repeating his name over and over again, to fill her mind with his name rather than with fears. 

“He’s fine,” Scott finally whispers her. He lowers himself to grab her legs, lifting her body carefully to carry her. “He’s fine Lyds. Calm down now, you’re hurt.” 

Tears of relief starts forming in her eyes even before she spots him, as if her body had caught sight of him before her own eyes did. 

Stiles runs towards her, as always. He looks down at her while she’s still in her best  friend’s arms and hugs her, and the ache of her broken bones suddenly feels bearable against his skin. He cradles her face and kisses her softly, tasting the salt of both their crying on her lips. 

Then finally, Scott puts her down and Stiles catches her before she has the time to stumble. 

“You’re alive,” she cries, touching his face reverently, “you’re fine. You’re alive.”

Still supporting her as a rock, Stiles lifts his chin from the crook of her neck where it was resting, and glances at her with a mix of confusion and sadness. 

“Lyds... _ you _ were the one dying.” 

She swallows hard, feeling  _ so  _ tired all of sudden, “I know,” she whispers. 

He doesn’t ask, maybe taking it for an irrational post-attack rant, and she’s glad of it. Instead, he decides to hide his face back in her neck, kissing her cheek in the process, then placing another kiss on her pulse as if to make sure it does beat. 

The tiredness hits her whole body too. She sags, exhausted, and the feeling of Stiles’ strong arms around her waist is the last thing she recalls before passing out.

 

* * *

 

It’s not as bad as they thought.

Apparently she has no broken rib, but the pressure on her chest had been  hard enough to cause her several small contusions, and now on her pale skin, her freckles are replaced by a wide, greenish mark that had just started changing color into purple. 

Back at the hospital Lydia had found herself staring at the slow but constant transformation of the hematoma between her breasts like under hypnosis, almost feeling each cell dying inside of her, screaming her name as they left one more bruised pigment on her.  Each one of them sounds like a sacrifice, an offer for a god she never started to believe in. Or, more likely, they are her punishment for that lack of faith.

But then Stiles had gotten into the room almost stumbling on his own feet for the impetus. He had run to her, closing the distance between himself and the bed with two long strides, kissed her full on her mouth with the same desperation she experienced only for their first kiss, months ago. 

And in that moment, she thought, even one lonely living cell was enough, as long as it allowed her to be with him. 

 

She wakes up at the squeaky sound of her door, when Stiles shows up behind it and slowly walks in towards her with a mug of Starbucks and the softest of the smiles. 

“Coffee at midnight?” She asks a little uncertain. Not that she’d complain but the doctors recommended her to have a good sleep and she really could use a little of rest now. 

“ _ Iced  _ coffee,” Stiles smirks, sitting on the mattress and placing the mug on the nightstand. He leans in and greets her with a kiss. “And,” he adds, lips still inches from hers. “It’s deca.”

“You’re perfect.”

Before he could reply with a not-so-modest deadpan as she knows he would, Lydia presses her lips back on his, more fiercely this time. She doesn’t miss the almost silent moan that escapes him, but when her hands had just made their way under his tee, Stiles pulls apart. 

“Does it hurt?” He asks, his hand still cupping her jaw. 

“Not so much now.” She lies. 

Then she tries to catch his lips once more, and leans towards him but Stiles jerks back, which makes her frown at once.

“Why didn’t you react?” 

She tilts her head but still remains silent. 

“You didn’t scream.” 

“I had something like two hundred pounds pressed against me!” Her voice gets high-pitched all of sudden. 

“No, no, I mean before that. You were just standing there in front of it…. you didn’t scream.”

Lydia shrugs, “I guess I was too scared in that moment.” 

“It seemed like you were  _ talking _ to it.” A tone of question hidden under his statement. 

She swallows at first, almost imperceptibly, as she takes her time to respond. 

“I’m a banshee, Stiles. I don’t talk to animals,” Lydia says with empty voice, detached, just like the rest of her expression. “I scream. And apparently I can’t do much of it either.” 

But then she can’t hold his gaze on her anymore, so earnest and warm… the opposite of what she feels like. Lydia looks down, her sweaty hands resting on her lap becoming suddenly more interesting than the boy she would give her life for. 

Stiles’ mouth opens and closes about three times before shutting for good, maybe accepting her answer as a final verdict. 

His hand travels her face, brushing her skin so softly she has to close her eyes and focus on his touch to feel it. Without realizing her body shifts closer to his, and she finds herself craving for his hands more than ever, craving that warmth,  _ his _ warmth. The only one that could replace the aching cold in her chest she’s afraid to get used to at this point. 

When she kisses him this time, he doesn’t shift back. 

He moves his lips tenderly against hers, leaving small brushing kisses that just leave her wanting more; by the way she returns the kiss, she makes sure he gets that he doesn’t need to be all that tender. 

His shirt is quickly tossed somewhere in her room, immediately followed by her pajama shorts and his own jeans. As he slowly rests her on the mattress, his hand pressed on the small of her back as support, Stiles leaves wet kisses along her collarbone, carefully caressing her side with his free hand, finding the rough material of the orthopedic corset instead of the usual softness of her skin. 

With her hands holding him tight, Lydia feels him going rigid for moment, the muscles of his wide back stiffen under her palms, but he doesn’t seem to let it show, so she decides to play along. 

He rolls on his side and shifts beside her, so that now he’s able to have a full view of her body and she can’t believe the look of pure adoration in his eyes when the separate for a brief moment only to catch their breaths, the way he gawks at her holding so much awe she feels combust at once. The way he worships her even when she’s  _ so  _ ruined. 

It’s addictive, the way he looks at her. 

She’s lost for awhile in the golden of his iris, now slightly darkened when he takes her in completely, but this time, he’s the one to capture her lips, and she meets him halfway, tugging him at his neck to get him as close as possible.  

They both sigh at the passion of that kiss, breathless already even though his hand had just started moving lower on her abdomen, his fingertips only inches away from the lacy hem of her panties. Her whole body literally swells as he rests his hand flat over the indument, cupping her pussy and tightening the grip just right, warming her up all over again. 

Then he tugs her closer to him, so to have a better access to her core. In the process, he presses his chest to hers and it’s so unexpected Lydia can’t help the wince, though she tries to mask it with a moan. 

But of course he notices.

Stiles pauses, his body goes rigid for the second time that night, and he seems like to be aware just now of what he’s doing, as if someone had just waken him up from a dream. He quickly pulls back. 

“Stiles…hey.” She calls him softly.

He holds his gaze up and, hearing her saying his name, he stares at her, a painful look that has her in ache with the only act of staring back at him. 

Lydia lifts up a little, ignoring the physical pain, and brings him down to lie again with her, and with both her surprise and relief, he doesn’t resist.

“I won’t break,” she breathes out, grabbing his hand and pulling it back between her legs. 

Stiles doesn’t reply. He just keeps staring at her with those glassy eyes that now look like melted gold with the feeble light of the moon hitting them through the window. 

He kisses her, probably to avoid a possible debate, she thinks, and now he’s careful,  _ too  _ careful, gentle but  _ too  _ gentle with his touches, as if she was a piece of glass about to shatter at the very first blow of wind. 

He doesn’t let her go deeper. He’s too scared to hurt her. She sees it in his eyes going wide if she tries to adjust herself under him. She feels it in his muscles jerking at her lustful touches. 

So instead, with a long shaky breath, he starts kissing her again, moving lower, tracing her torso, her ribs, her scars, until his mouth finally stops when he reaches her belly. His kisses become wetter and she’s panting again, her hands make room through his hair, guiding him where she needs him. 

He goes down on her that night, as he keeps her legs parted and places them to rest over his shoulders, while one of his big arms slides under her back and rises her a little for a better access, folding her with his warmth at the same time. 

It’s almost holy how he puts so much of himself in giving her pleasure, as if he was somehow meant to be inside her, in every way possible. Physically or emotionally, he just  _ fits. _

She comes silently, because it feels more intimate that way, and once he finishes cleaning her with his mouth ( _ god, that mouth) _ , he crawls back to her and kisses her on her forehead, before cuddling by her side. 

With Stiles between her arms, she hums him a lullaby she never had thought to know until that moment. It feels new and yet so familiar, like her love for him; but she suddenly feels so sleepy for her own melody and his comforting, now regular breathing against her stomach, that  her eyelashes flutter without her volition, and in a moment she’s asleep and everything is back quiet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update was soooo late guys, sorry. I got stuck with exams and personal issues. 
> 
> -Catherine, you wonderful person, forever grateful to have you in this project. You're an angel and i love you.  
> -Sydney The Supporter, my writing motivator and amazing friend, thank you thank you thank you for finding the time to work on this.
> 
> & you all folks!! this fic would be just a bunch of trash words if it wasn't for you, each comment of yours makes me wanna write more every day so!!! Thank you!!! Please don't forget to leave feedback, it means a lot.
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the chapter and if you didn't ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They opt for pizza when they realize even the little food available can’t be cooked since apparently the storm had caused a blackout too… But of course all the delivery services had been cancelled with a such severe weather warning.  
> So no power. No pizza. Basically, no food. At all.  
> [...]  
> “Aren't you starving?” Stiles asks her after a while. She’s so quiet, he couldn't help the question.  
> “Of course I'm starving. I'm not a robot or something.”  
> “Well, you _are_ something.” The memory makes them both smile and Lydia eventually chuckles against his chest, the vibration of her laughter getting under his skin and deeper.  
>  “Thought we covered this topic long time ago.”

__  
Three’s a pattern.  


* * *

 

“What the hell were those?”

Stiles had been pacing around the room for a couple of minutes only but for the annoyance visible in the other two’s eyes, he could tell it felt like hours to them.

See, he couldn't really help it though. A pack of dreadful dogs had almost smashed to death the girl he loves, pushed his best friend into a mortal fight from which somehow he –they– made it alive; and not to sound repetitive but for as much chaotic their lives could be, it never really happened to him to risk to lose both of them at least twice in less than a month.

So no, no one could really blame him if he even dug a hole in the floor by pacing.

“Black Dogs. I think we saw them already.” Scott murmured, sitting on Stiles’ bed, his shoulders curved down a little. Stiles couldn't remember the last time he saw him looking _so_ tired.

“Trust me I saw tons of black dogs, but none like these,” Stiles snapped.

“No, I mean in the bestiary. We read about them in the bestiary, I think they belong to some kind of folklore I can't recall now… right, Lydia?”

The boys both turned to face her at the same time. It was light, almost imperceptible, but Stiles caught Lydia swallow hard before answering, her gaze staring at nothing in particular in front of her with cold eyes, “Maybe.”

Her tone was tired as well, yet so different from Scott’s, but he couldn't get the cause of such shade. She sounded detached, looked resigned and slightly hopeless.

All these things made him almost get over the fact that she just admitted to not knowing something he was most surely positive she knows, since she translated the damn book on her own.

“Lydia–”

“I’ll check it out myself once at home.”

And with that, she got up from the mattress, went by Scott, and left the room and the two boys now staring wordlessly at the ajar door that she just crossed.

* * *

 

They were stepping out of their favorite coffee shop after a two hours straight of shopping when it started to rain.

Neither of them really saw that coming since the sun was shining bright right before they went inside but whatever, Stiles quickly took her hand and dragged her in the nearest shop to dry and change their clothes.

So now he finds himself with a giant row of clothes towering up over his face, trying desperately to follow Lydia’s gait despite the weights and forced to overlook from the pile in order to stay behind her.

But soon, the light shade of bother is replaced by a sense of nostalgia that makes him warm and bittersweet at the same time, the moment he thinks that the last time he lived this same scenario they were both freshmen, Lydia was in love with another guy and Allison was still alive, pushing her towards him.

“I can't believe all the X Smalls fly off the shelves so easily.” Lydia’s groan brings him back to reality, as she approaches another island of shimmering dresses and eventually drop one pretty, but clearly too large for her.

“Well, you can’t really demand to be the only petite, hot minion-like fashionable girl in town, can you.”

Lydia turns around to look at him with a mix of amusement and confusion in her expression. “Should I feel offended?”  
“I said hot and fashionable.”

“You also said _minion-like_ and petite.”

“Petite is good?”

She chuckles. “Yeah, save your ass now.” But she still rubs his back with her free hand and pushes him gently towards the fitting room, dropping a sloppy kiss on his cheek in the process.

About twenty five minutes of wait later, six changes total and a couple of cramps to each calf, Lydia gets out the changing room for the umpteenth time, now wearing a pale, half-sleeved cyan dress that fits her perfectly, tight and neat on her torso and then falling loosely on her thighs. The neckline is not even that wide to show her cleavage fully, but the way the material follows the curves of her breasts just right, is somehow even sexier.

That, added to the messy strawberry blonde waves of her hair, framing her pretty face down to her neck with such harmony, is enough to make him swallow hard at the sight of her.

She notices, of course, not that he did anything to hide it anyway, and blushes - actually _blushes_ \- at once.

“You look beautiful.” And his tone so much more serious than he had meant it to be.

He loves it that she doesn’t look away from him anymore every time he compliments her. He likes to think that’s because she does deserve every single word.

“C’mon,” Lydia takes his hand and brings it to her mouth, just before kissing his knuckles softly, “we’ll find something for you now.”

Without even changing in her own clothes, she drags him to the men area and grabs a simple yet elegant dark gray suit for him, with a white shirt and a sleeveless gilet matching the pants.

Clueless about how Lydia could even know his size for everything, Stiles wears it without questions and once he steps out the changing room Lydia is there waiting for him, staring at her reflection in the mirror before her and smoothly adjusting the seams of the dress on her hips.

With a soft smile that he hadn’t realized to have, he gets closer to her and slowly unfolds her shoulders from behind, resting his chin on her bare shoulder.  

“You look really good in that one.” She says softly, tilting her head to his cheek.

“Guess you don’t have good taste in boys only.” Lydia rolls her eyes, but still smiles.

There’s a pause in which they stay silent, looking at themselves in the mirror with a shade of sadness and curiosity in both their eyes. The sadness for the ordinarity of those figures, looking so at ease and just _normal_ in clothes that could one day be used at work, in a meeting or even just at dinner with friends when no threat is lurking behind the corner. A future they still don’t have the certainty of, which, for that, makes them curious to know more about it.

And with that thought, the same one he knows she’s having as well at the same time, he gently places a kiss on her temple, lingering a bit longer before whispering to her ear, “We’ll get there one day. I promise.”

* * *

 

Driving ten miles per hour on a desert street is _nerve-wracking_.

When they had received a severe weather warning in the mall though, there wasn't really any other option for the way back home. Since neither of them was willing to wait until night in hope to see the rain ceasing, they had decided to head back to Stiles’ place as soon as possible, even though that meant spending more than half hour in a crackling jeep that, for every mile it drove, felt like it could break in the middle of the storm.  

And Lydia’s mood most certainly doesn't help.

“Lyd, you’re aware of what kind of situations this jeep has been through right? It will _not_ crack.”

“Okay but consider this. It will,” she snaps.

“Can you just not be that cranky?!”

“ _It’s raining inside the car, Stiles!”_

“Yeah I’m aware, thank you.” He sighs loudly, focusing back on the road when he spots the green light above him.

Eventually they do make it safe to his place, to Stiles’ relief, although he doesn't dare to show it and Lydia, for her part, pretends not to acknowledge it.

His dad’s not at home, which is weird since his shift had ended more than a hour ago, but when he grabs his phone to call him, he spots a missing call and two texts from his father informing him that the rain had caused a flood around the station, so that they were all blocked in. He writes the firemen were already in their way, although late because of the weather, and ends telling him not to worry and be careful. The final thumb up emoticon doesn't reassure at all though.

“Dad’s stuck at the station because of the flood,” he says flatly, keeping his tone as neutral as possible.

Catching Lydia’s worried expression he knows he didn't succeed.

“He’s okay. As long as he doesn't get outside he’ll be fine,” she says softly, and the reassurance in her tone gets to warm him up a little more at least.

Her touch is just as warm when her hand reaches for his cheek, stroking it with her thumb to comfort him, reflecting every kind word in her actions.

He had closed his eyes at the feeling of her skin against his, something he still has to process sometimes when gets to overthink about it - about them _finally_ being together. At him not having to mask his worries for her with ones of a friend he maybe never truly believed he could be, not without feeling his heart ache at every glance they shared.

So with that thought, as she leaves her lips from his jaw just to catch his own right after, he’s not really surprised when he feels his stomach twist all over again, even after ten years of doing that.

The kiss is slow and chaste at first; he caresses her back as he carefully walks her to the kitchen, their mouths still moving in sync, and sits her on the table. His hands lower to her thighs, mimicking the rubs he made before and he slowly splays his palms under skirt, going just a little deeper when he catches her content hum of response.

Lydia had just started going for his neck when a sudden, loud rumble coming from below has her frozen immediately.

Pulling apart slowly, she smirks, “Was that your stomach?”

Stiles flushes, “Yours too made that.”

“Don't even try, you dork,” she says before hitting him on his chest softly.

“Okay but we legit haven't been eating all day because of all the shopping thing. It’s all your fault, Martin.” He start tickling her on the sides, right where he knows she would crack.

She does, and starts laughing, more like a repressed chuckle at first but then with actual tears in her eyes when he grabs her waist and attacks her on her most ticklish points.

“Stiles! No! Gah– oh my god _stop_ –  okay, okay _I'm hungry too_! Happy now?” She pants, with her hands lifted in front of her face trying to shield herself from him, the corners of her mouth still turned upwards.

Stiles lets go, satisfied of her admission. He grins at her in such a childish way he knew a eyes roll of hers would follow it even before actually seeing her do that. And just because he’s in the mood, he raises his hands from where they were resting on her hips, and fidget his fingers in front of her, hands wide open between them. “Turns out these skinny ones can make you admit things in more than one way then.”

Her eyes go wide in a second, red replaces the smooth porcelain of her usual pale tone; he doesn’t see it coming– the ball of towels that suddenly hits his face.

“ _At_ _the stove, Stilinski_!”

* * *

 

Actually, there’s no food in the fridge. Turns out his dad had planned to go to the grocery store that day if he hadn’t been forced to stick at the station.

They opt for pizza when they realize even the little food available can’t be cooked since apparently the storm had caused a blackout too… But of course all the delivery services had been cancelled with a such severe weather warning.

So no power. No pizza. Basically, no food. At all.

It’s hard, initially. They talk a lot to miss their stomachs’ rumbles, or just stay silent while the awkward noises get covered by Max and Caroline’s banters in “ _Two Broke Girls_ ”, sometimes interrupted by a critic comment of Stiles, positively comparing Lyda’s breasts to the ones of the girls in the show (“Your boobs are the happy medium of theirs, babe.”)

“Can you spend one day without mentioning my boobs?” She snaps at the third remark, not even _trying_ to fake annoyance.  Her ridiculous attempt to repress the smile on her lips by pursuing them fails when Stiles spots the spark in her eyes.

“Can you blame me though?” And as to state so, he drops a quick kiss on her chest before adjusting himself back on the sofa, leaving her smiling dumbly at the TV.

They think they can handle it after all. What’s hunger in comparison with kanimas, darachs, crazy doctors and ghost riders, after all?

They drink water and juice every so often, share an almost empty bag of chips, go back to the TV, a make out session when Stiles doesn’t get too irascible because of the lack of food, then back to the left sugars; repeat.

It sounds like a good plan, in wait until the rain stops anyway.

Except it doesn’t.

After 13 hours without eating, they do _starve_.

He checks his phone once more, realizes his dad answered his texts, telling him he’s fine and that the assistance had set up a camp for the night already. Despite the the sigh of relief, the content lasts the slightest, quickly replaced by the rage, the frustration and the hunger of minutes ago. Out of anger, he throws the phone on the sofa with a groan.

“Hey… why don't we go to bed and try to sleep?” Lydia’s murmur relaxes him at once, her voice working like a restful infusion on his nerves.

She reaches for one of his hands and slowly disentangles his fingers from the fist he hadn't realized he made. Then, after sharing a soft look, everything seems to have gotten back to pieces inside him. He focuses on the green sparkles of her eyes, shining for him; he gets lost in her beauty, so bright the darkness seems to make her room, as if unable to shade her.

Still mesmerized in her figure, her voice sounds just like an echo when she whispers, “C’mon.”  

They head upstairs, to his room, and it doesn't take them much to change into more comfortable clothes as they did a lot of times already, and get sprawled under the fresh sheets of Stiles’ bed.

Getting closer and closer, Lydia gets to rest her head on his chest, which paradoxically makes him breath lighter that way, and Stiles for his part circles her shoulders, starting drawing abstract figures on them, as he connects her tiny freckles with his fingertips.

“Aren't you starving?” Stiles asks her after a while. She’s _so_ quiet, he couldn't help the question.

“Of course I'm starving. I'm not a robot or something.”

“Well, you _are_ something.” The memory makes them both smile and Lydia eventually chuckles against his chest, the vibration of her laughter getting under his skin and deeper.

“Thought we covered this topic long time ago.” She grins at him, then pinches him slightly on the chest.

He winces, “This was so not necessary.” He massages the point she hit with his free hand before resting it over her own, on his chest. “So… how are you so chill? You know, despite the hunger.”

“Used to starve all the time when I was with Jackson. Typical carbohydrates-phobia of teenage girls, you know.” She shrugs, laughing nervously even though nothing of her statement could possibly sound any fun.

Lydia doesn't meet his eyes, just keeps playing with the bottom of his shirt as she pretends to ignore his glance, holding so much madness and sympathy, something that he knows she would never want to see, not for her at least.

So instead he swallows them all down, tries to relax his body despite every cell had gone rigid at Lydia’s words, an upcoming rage for someone who hurt her so much, for so long, and he couldn’t do _anything_ about it.

There’s no universe in which Lydia Martin, his Lydia, is a fragile, manipulable, average girl. She’s not now, and wasn’t then. She had been through so much, matured all the way along the path in which he’s been lucky enough to go with her, that he can’t help it but feel so incredibly proud of this small girl in his arms, looking more like a puppy now as she curls up to his side;  but Stiles would literally sell his soul to let her face all the people who let her down in the past and show them how that tiny thing could make blow their head up, if she only wanted to.

She’s just… so _strong_. In the most breathtaking way possible.

So he tells her so, and at his words she limits herself to hide her face against his side, just inches below his heart, and laughs shily. Only when she finally lifts her chin to stare back at him, their eyes meeting both with nothing less than endless pure love held inside, - only then, all the rage of just minutes ago fades like a burden reduced to ashes, knowing never ever again she’ll have to be someone who doesn’t fit her.

Holding such a promise, Stiles leans in and kisses her, as a sort of seal on a document he signed long time ago by now. She clearly didn’t expect the kiss to be that passionate, so she lets out a moan when he tilts her head, to deepen the kiss already, tugging her body closer to his at the same time.

They both shift in sync, pulling a part only for a few seconds and colliding back again as they lie face to face now, limbs tangled together in a way Stiles hopes could never be unravelled. She’s so close he can feel her breasts pressed against his chest, one of the top five things he learned to label as ‘most erotic in his life’.

Her leg gets to wrap up on around his waist, pulling him closer in the process and oh- their hips meet, _crash_ to better say, and he’s sure she can now feel _everything._ He has the confirmation of it when her lips turn upwards slightly as she keeps licking his mouth contentedly, moving the hand in his hair down on his hip, scratching just a little bit where the shirt had left his skin bare.

The groan he lets out is almost embarrassing, although Lydia doesn’t seem to care much, instead enjoying the effects of her actions on him when she decides to move her attention on his pulse point, softly biting his neck, and starts rolling her hips more frenetically against his - now very very hard - cock. Without his will his hands find her ass at once, following and leading her movement despite the fact that she knows better what she’s doing.

“God Lydia you– _oh_ – you feel so fucking perfect when you move like this.”

She hums something in response, too quiet and breathy to distinguish it, especially in such a moment, but he can almost make it out when her hand sneaks out his pajamas pants with no warning and starts stroking him lazily, before pulling apart just a little to get rid of her (his) long hoodie.

For a moment, everything goes blurry. All he sees are scars, mending wounds, ruins of a once fair skin that too soon has been damaged, a series of recent greenish bruises with a hue that’s so different from the green he got to love when he was only eight. Without realizing, he’s gaping, no awe in his eyes, just terror and panic.

But then her hand is cupping his face so tenderly and forces him to look into her eyes instead of her scars; her movements change, becoming slow and nice, her touches warm and soft, as she stares deep at him, giving a watery smile and a nod of reassurance that he can't but mirror.

“Stiles it’s okay.” He nods, again, kissing her neck to hide his face from hers so _so_ pretty. He just want to make her feel good. Now and forever, if she lets him.

His hand is shaky when he takes her thong off, the only piece of clothing left to separate them, but she’s there for him already and gently takes his hand in hers, tangling their fingers as she moves closer. He can literally feel her core brushing against his tip, so close and yet not really frustrating; it never is with her.

He hesitates, resting his forehead on hers as he adjusts the sheet above them.

“It’s okay,” she repeats, caressing his face. Then there’s a breathy, long sigh, “Stiles… it’s been so long.”

“I know,” He breathes out.

“You okay with that?” Lydia whispers, a little tentatively.

He restrains a chuckle, unable to hide the smirk on his face though, because Lydia Martin is seriously asking him if it’s okay to him to have sex with her.

Instead of ruining everything with a sarcastic quip he’s sure he’d regret about it right after, Stiles decides to nod only, stroking her cheek with his thumb and never leaving her eyes as he slowly pushes forward and fills her. The almost silent gasp she makes at first quickly turns into a whine when he slides almost all the way out of her before giving another thrust, just a little harder this time.

Her moans fill his ear, her eager hands leave marks that just barely reflect the ones she already left in his heart. Never has he felt that whole in his life like that night, when although the threats await for them outside, they’re still stuck together, making love to each other for the simple, yet so pure aim to _give._

They reach their climax in this selfless status of inebriation, with trembling limbs still tangled so tight around their bodies he would probably feel his skin bruising if he wasn’t post-orgasm dumb, in awe at the sight of Lydia still panting in front him, eyes fluttering and covered in sweat which somehow -to her- has the opposite effect of gross, making her shine under the soft light of the moon.

When she finally opens back her eyes she finds him staring at her, maybe in a bit creepy way judging from her frown. “What.”

He shrugs, “You’re beautiful.”

She smiles, blushing a little but without looking away from him; she doesn’t have to anymore. Then she closes the distance and catches his lips, kisses him gently initially before biting his lower lower lip as she lets go with a smirk. “You’re beautiful too but we’re not going on a second round, sweetheart.”

“Oh, dammit!”

Lydia burst into laughter and in that moment he thinks a choir of angels would have nothing on it. They move at the same time: she turns her back on him and he automatically shifts closer, putting one arm around her waist, and through the harmonic sound of their regular breathing, even their stomachs seem to have found a little of peace.

 

*******

She’s not awake, she can tell.

Two are the main hints that lead her almost immediately to this conclusion: this room, so similar to _his_ room but that she knows is not, is cold, too cold to be Stiles’, too unfamiliar as she steps in. Second, there’s fog at her feet. That kind of fog she’s seen only once, unfortunately, before. Lydia catches the white smoke raise level, circling her ankles as she stops in the middle of the room, and with a mix of curiosity and terror held in her gaze, she follows it with her eyes until she finds the origin.

The hooves are not quite visible through the mist, and the pale color of the horse doesn’t certainly help create whatever contrast to glimpse it better, but Lydia doesn’t miss those glassy green eyes towering above the animal; she had seen them far too many times in her nightmares to forget them.

“I see you found quite a way to overcome your hunger.” The gelid voice of the horseman pools inside her as a stream of cold water.

Despite the goosebumps Lydia tries to keep her composure, straightens her spine and once she silently cleared her throat to avoid any shaky sounds in her tone, she responds with as much coldness as she can, “I see your friends didn’t bother to come around this time. Had a family fight lately?”

The expression of the knight– an amused smirk followed by a the fakest of the smiles–  is by far the reaction she had expected to see on his ghost-like face at her snap.

“They already did what they had to.” She has no idea what he means by that, so when he sees her wordless, he speaks again, “I wouldn’t be so unrespectful to the ones to keep your boyfriend alive.”

“You leave my boyfriend the hell out of this,” she roars.

“He’s into this as much as you are,” he replies even louder, making the air around them vibrate somehow. Then, gaining his composure back, he adds, “Besides, looks like you have worked on your guilt feelings. I’m glad.” Nothing on him expressed gladness.

His eyes are drilling holes in hers, so icy she refrains a shiver as he gets closer. Lydia swallows down her fears to maintain her cool but the closer he – it – gets, the less she feels to have control on her emotions.

“You aren’t jealous, are you?” She hears herself answering, not as firmly or bitchy as she wished it came out though.

The horseman slightly shakes his head, a thin grin still shown on his face. “I don’t have to. You’re mine,” he shrugs at the last statement, as if it was some kind of granted.

And Lydia Martin is _not_ granted.

“You might own my soul but my body is still mine,” she says in a quiet, deadly tone, gathering as much fire as she can get despite she’s physically freezing.

Then, as a brat who’s been denied his favorite toy, does the knight darken. Literally, darkens. The soft, pale green halo around him turns into bright emerald, his eyes lighten with stark green sparkles that are anything but beautiful, just scary. The horse underneath him starts to flail and if it wasn’t for the skinny hands of the man, carefully placed at the sides of the animal’s neck as a sign of ‘stop’, Lydia thinks she would’ve been dead already.

When he replies, she does feel dead for a minute. Either for the power in his voice or for the promise he makes, she doesn’t know.

“For now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If there's some sort of award for worst chapter summary-maker, slowest fic updater or something sign me up guys.  
> Catherine (cave_canem) give me your patience you angel, thank you thank you thank you for sticking with me. If you folks are reading my fc without haven't checked hers out first, you totally have to sort out your priorities.
> 
> i'm lydias-martin on tumblr!
> 
> comments and kudos are candies, as always <3 thanks for reading.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Some interpret the Horsemen as a prophecy of a future Tribulation, during which many on Earth will die as a result of multiple catastrophes. This is when God will judge the Earth, and is giving the World a chance to repent before they die.
> 
> The four riders are often seen as symbolizing Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is SO short, too short for what i've made you wait, i know. I just had a crazy work/study schedule that barely reduced me to a ghost, but i for sure founf the time to write a bit.  
> As always, THANK YOU Cath for polishing my mess and being the most patient human being on earth, ily. 
> 
> Things start to be explained!! Enjoy xx

**_Search_ ** **: four horsemen**

 

_ (About 4.350.000 results) _

 

**_– Four horsemen (2012)_ ** _ IMDb _

   documentary

 

**_– The four horsemen_ ** ,  _ Brooklyn _

   restaurant 

 

**–** **_The four horsemen_ ** ,  _ Metallica -Youtube _

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**_– The four horsemen of the Apocalypse,_ ** _ Wikipedia _

**** christian bible; mythology                          [ _ enter _ ]

 

**-**

_ The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are described in the last book of the New Testament of the Bible, called the Book of Revelation of Jesus Christ to John of Patmos. _

 

_ The Christian apocalyptic vision is that the Four Horsemen are to set a divine apocalypse upon the world as harbingers of the Last Judgment. _

 

_ Some interpret the Horsemen as a prophecy of a future Tribulation, during which many on Earth will die as a result of multiple catastrophes. This is when God will judge the Earth, and is giving the World a chance to repent before they die. _

 

_ The four riders are often seen as symbolizing Pestilence, War, Famine, and Death. _

* * *

 

**_“Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.”_ **

**_– Revelation, 6:8_ **

* * *

  
It’s a warm morning, one of those rare ones in that summer, with warm rays of sunshine filtering through the curtains of her window. The sweet scent of coffee slowly wakes her senses up as she feels a completely different type of warmth caressing her face with familiar chapped lips. 

She’s not given much time to process it, not that the guess would be hard anyway, when a hoarse voice whispers at her ear, “Good morning, love.”

And since the appellative is almost as rare as that warm sunlight - not much for lack of caring but for one of habit - the corners of her mouth that had already started turning up, now widen fully into a soft smile, as she slowly opens up her eyes. 

The touch of Stiles’ lips still lingers on her cheek when Lydia wakes up, finding him crawled up next to her bed with those melted-gold colored eyes staring at her so intensely she thinks that maybe all that warmth has nothing to do with the sun. 

“Hey,” she hears herself whisper back, sleepily, eyes still fluttering.

“How was your research?” There’s a smile in his tone, although she can’t clearly see it yet. 

Then it hits her. 

A research? 

_ Oh. The Research. _

Holy sh–

“What? What research?” Her eyes open wide, now more awake than ever as she hurriedly messes her bedsheet up in her attempt to sit. 

Either because he doesn’t catch her worry or maybe he thinks it’s a post-awake reaction, Stiles’ smile doesn’t crack, and with the same softness in his look he simply motions something on her pillow with his head. That’s when Lydia actually feels the sticky corner of something poked in her elbow, the metallic material makes her wince as she rolls over to take it away with the only result of let it fall down the bed. Internally screaming at the sight of her -brand new- laptop on the floor she tries to gain her composure anyway and looks back at Stiles, who in meantime had followed all her movements with a certain mix of curiosity and amusement she can tell, by the way his lips are pursued together in attempt to refrain a smirk. 

The elbow still hurts, she’ll get a new bruise soon. Then again, that’s literally the last of her problems at the moment. 

“The Probability theory and the influence of zeta functions on random variables,” she blurts out. “Needed to distract myself a little from all this… supernatural shit, you know.” 

Stiles blinks several times, still smiling dumbly as always whenever she talks science to him, before replying, “Granted that I got only the prepositions and conjunctions of the sentence, maybe one day you’ll explain it to me.”

And at that, all the angst seem to ebb away a little, Lydia lets ou a sigh of relief as she allows her body to literally  _ melt _ at those words, at the daily reminder that she’s finally found the one she loves and who’s in love with her just equally, in every way, and adores her mind as much as her body. 

She leans in and kisses him softly, trying to express all her gratitude and love in every second her lips linger on his. 

Stiles for his part looks caught out of guard from the passion of the kiss and takes a few seconds before reacting with the same intensity, the corners of his mouth turning slightly upwards against hers. 

“Wait,” Lydia suddenly pulls away, softly pushing him by the shoulders to look at him. “How did you get here.”

He shrugs, “your mom let me in.” And he doesn't miss her blink of surprise when he adds, “you know, she does that now.” 

She laughs, unable to repress that. 

“Okay, that was legit. So,” Lydia starts, her hand now slided down on his chest as if in desperate need of contact, “why’re you here?” 

“Uhm yeah, right,” Stiles answers, shaking his head like he’s just woken up as well, “I'm going to Scott’s for lunch, wanna come?” 

“Is he okay with that?” 

His exasperated expression almost makes her break into laughter again, “of course! He told me to ask you.” A childish  _ duh _ hidden in his tone. 

“Fine fine,” she chuckles. “I'm in.”

“Good. Like old times.” He grins. 

“Yeah,” her grin just a little sadder than his because old times included someone else too. “Like old times.”

As if to wash away her nostalgia, he kisses her forehead, just before dropping another tender kiss on her lips. He tastes like coffee and her mind goes blank for a moment.

But then something else clicks on her. 

“But,” she pushes him away again. His lips still forming a pout from where they had been stopped. “It’s still 11 a.m.”

“Yeah, that’s a bonus for me,” he says, coyly.

Still clueless about his point she tilts her head in a silent question. 

Then without blinking Stiles approaches, slowly coming closer and sitting on the edge of her bed where he was lurking before, now facing her completely.

“Your mom just went out to the grocery shop.” Her heart misses a bit at the sound of his breathing just inches from her neck, his voice getting hoarse next to her ear, “happy third mensiversary, Lyds.”  

He slips one hand under her shirt as he caresses her waist, and by then, Lydia has already almost forgotten about the new information of last night. 

Almost.

* * *

 

On the way through Scott’s porch, the door almost crushes Stiles’ nose when it suddenly cracks open in front of them, only to reveal the long and tanned figure of Malia, now standing next to him with both her hands pressed on the mouth and a mortified look on her face. 

“Oh my god. Oh my god Stiles are you okay? I’m so sorry.” 

“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine, don’t worry.” He winces slightly touching his nose but there’s no blood coming out and he looks just normal - pretty- as usual to Lydia. 

With both the girls still checking him out, Stiles’ flinch slowly turns into a frown. He turns to Malia as he had just now realized her presence and goes “Wait. What are you doing here?”

Lydia rolls her eyes at his clueless ass. Malia just blushes slightly. 

“Uhm, I… I just passed by to say hi, you know.” 

“You’re not gonna stay for lunch?” Now it’s Lydia who’s confused. 

“No, I’m hanging out with my dad today.” 

There’s an awkward moment of silence at her sentence, neither of them willing to ask The Question and limiting themselves to just pursue lips, avoiding her gaze (Lydia) or wobbling fake-nonchalantly on their feet (Stiles).  

“Not Peter.” 

“Ohh.” Their chorus sounding almost comedic. 

She spots Malia not-so-subtly repress a chuckle and mask it with a fake cough just before saying goodbye to the couple. 

They find Scott at the stoves, of course, welcomed by the pierce smell of curry and roasted vegetables as Stiles closes the door behind them and gently places one hand to her lower back. 

“It’s almost done, kids, one minute!” Scott’s voices comes from the kitchen even before they get in, making them both smile at the imitation of his own mother. 

He greets Stiles with their usual handshake and kisses Lydia on the cheek as they step in the room. Scott quickly takes their plate and fill them with the yellowish rice, so that in a few minutes the three of them are sitting around the table and making their jaws work after what it seemed a week of starving. 

(Okay, one day, but that was more than enough).

After a few exchange of glares between her and Stiles, curiosity gets the upper hand and Lydia finally asks, “So… is everything okay with…” She doesn't finish her question but just throws a slight nod to the door, right where Malia left just minutes ago. 

This time at least, Scott doesn't pretend to not get it, “Yeah,” he says softly, a smile spreading unconsciously across his face, “yeah I guess so.” 

He doesn’t get deeper into the topic and neither of them pushes him. The couple limit to exchange a knowing a look, one of those they saw sharing between the pack’s members in their regard so many times before they got finally together.

They turn the TV off and the radio on while eating, the notes of a Linkin Park’s songs quickly fill the silence and eventually the two boys start to hum the melody at the beat of their chew. And yes, it turns out quite disgusting when “In The End” starts playing. 

“Oh my  _ god _ , guys!” Lydia exclaims at the uptenth spit that reaches her plate, trying to hide the amusement, “can you save this to your ‘exclusive’ sleepovers.”

“You’re just bitter ‘cause you’ve never gotten invited.” Scott sing-songs, ruffling her hair with his free hand.

“I prefer to have some different kind of sleep overs with my boyfriend.” Lydia smirks, causing Stiles to blush at once. 

“Yeah okay, no details please.” Scott’s grimace makes them both refrain a chuckle that quickly turns into pure embarrassment when he adds, “Besides I can still smell sex on you.” 

It ends up in laughter, of course; everyone seems to have forgotten about the crazy events on the last month, everyone looks at ease and simply  _ relaxed _ . 

Everyone, but Lydia. 

Despite the deadpans, the light jokes and sassy remarks, Lydia couldn’t help but notice the nervous rub of hands Scott’s been doing constantly since they crossed the entryway, a tic that she got to associate with oral finals at school or some random argument with a girlfriend. But since they all already graduated a couple of months ago and his not-yet-girlfriend stepped out of the place with the widest of smiles and heart eyes similar to the ones of an emojii, she has to rule both her theories out.   

She’s so not going to like the answer. But.

“Scott, is there something you need to tell us?” 

A drop of sweat hits the table, both of the boys turn around to her, one with narrowed and confused eyes, the other with wide ones and in alert. 

“...What?”

Now Stiles’s looking at his - their- best friend too, Lydia flashes the alpha a scolding look, one of those a mom would give to her kid when he’s lying and she knows better. 

Luckily, the fight of stares doesn’t last too much. 

Scott sighs, resigned, his spine tensing slightly as if it was about to fall a burden from the sky and he was just ready to hold it. “I talked to Deaton.” 

A pause. 

“Yeah you kinda work with him every day,” snaps Stiles. “So?”   
“No I mean– we talked about the supernatural… discussed about the recent events.” 

“Again?” 

“Again…” 

“Is there a particular reason for you didn’t want to tell us?” Stiles’ tone goes flat, a shade of anger mixed with genuine curiosity that makes him look like some sort of inspector. Scott swallows. 

“We found out something,” he urges. Lydia’s heart goes cold. “And you’re not gonna like it.” 

“Still doesn’t answer the question,” Stiles tilts his head, his eyes showing more worry now, though. 

Scott shakes his head, “Stiles, if we’re right about it… God, you two are humans.  _ Humans _ . If this is what we think it is, you’re not gonna survive. It’s too dangerous.”

“So you were thinking about what? Uhm? Going off and fighting alone?” Stiles’ tone rises. 

“Lydia almost died, you were almost forgotten--”

“ _ Almost!” _

“Are you being  _ serious _ ?!” 

They had both stood up, now staring at each other with indignation in their eyes but that just reflects the mutual instinct of protection, so deep and pure that Lydia not only grew used to it, but is also fond and secretly jealous of it, because the one she felt that way with for the first time is now ten feet underneath her. 

Slowly, she stands up. The long creaking of the chair breaks the boys’ panting as she gets up to stand between them, eyes still locked in Scott’s. 

“What’s that about?” Lydia murmurs, trying to mask the shake of her voice by whispering. 

Yet for two completely different reasons, their reactions at Scott’s answer is quite identical. Both with pale faces and holding their breaths, Lydia feels Stiles hand slowly slipping away from her back, only to fall against his side. For her part, the only couple of words whispered with trembling voice by her best friend keep echoing in her head like the voices she still isn’t get used to; then again, no man is about to die. Not today, at least. 

It’s the rebirth of his past nightmare for Stiles, and the source of all her current ones for Lydia. 

Scott’s voice hammers in her head all the way back home. 

_ “Horse riders.”  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're almost halfway guys!! To all who've been following this story since chapter 1, i love you, so so much and i can't believe i've made it to make some poeple stick with me through this journey. For those who just started this fic, HEY FRIEND! There's still so much to go through and i hope you all will be there to read it when it comes :)  
> BUT SAD NEWS  
> I'll take a little break from the fic! I just need to focus on other projects atm, so stay tuned for more sexy upcoming fics. 
> 
> Feedback, children <3 Comment below, please and thanks for reading!!


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “That’s when I had the idea,” Deaton interferes and the pack turns to watch him now. Seen from an outsider’s point of view, Stiles bets they must look like the audience of a ping-pong match. “I analyzed everything that occurred these past months, like, event by event, abnormality by abnormality and… well, it sounds ridiculous but–“  
> “What.” Lydia’s voice comes out like a tremble and she doesn’t even bother to mask her annoyance.  
> Stiles starts rubbing her back, realizing just now how her body’s shaking too, but at the softness of his touch she seems to relax a little and all the questions in his head ebb away, for now.  
> “Doc,” Stiles interjects. “Get to the point.”  
> “It looks like a modern apocalypse,” states finally Deaton.  
> And then, to everyone’s horror, Lydia screams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'M BACK BITCHES

**2012**

 

The book seems almost unbearable in Lydia’s tiny arms, hiding her chest completely before she dumps it on the table, with a loud thump.

Mason jumps a little at the noise, but the awe in his eyes doesn’t fade at all as he stares at the book, curious and way too fascinated for what the pack is about to show him.

“So this is it?” he asks, eyes sparkling.

“Mason, the Bestiary is nothing to be excited for,” Lydia scolds him, and Mason’s expression grows serious and visibly forced.

He’s a smart guy and Stiles likes him, which is such a rare occurrence he can’t really ignore it. He only has this _obnoxious_ obsession over supernatural stuff…

“The Bestiary is a detailed and illustrated encyclopedia about every supernatural creature ever witnessed in history. There are a very few copies available nowadays, and even fewer that are this updated.”

Mason stares at Lydia’s hands leafing through the pages as if hypnotized by her words. She finally stops at the letter “B”, where the picture of a screaming old woman flashes at them. Lydia’s eyes linger on her for a minute before speaking again, “Bestiaries were originally born during the Middle Age as compendiums of animals. The supernatural version appeared centuries after but they still kept the same outline. So it indicates the name and scientific name for every creature, if there’s one, the physical description, the powers and the diffusion of said creature. Got it?”

Mason nods vigorously and Lydia shows him the index of the book; she tells him of the monsters they have already encountered, of how ambiguous some descriptions might be, and that a good interpretation is sometimes required in order to reveal the weak points. Sometimes there are no weak points, sometimes it’s too late when they find them out.

But if Lydia thinks that too, she doesn’t say it. Her expression is impassive as she goes on with her lecture, voice impossibly flat despite the bad memories.

Stiles watches her silently and he has to remind himself several times they’re not the only two in the room. He has to force his jaw to clench so that it doesn’t drop, to make his eyes blink, and his look boring as he listens.

He has to focus on Malia’s hand in his, and not on Lydia’s lips talking science. Or Lydia’s eyes and those golden sparkles in them, Lydia’s cheeks getting red for the fervor, Lydia’s curls tickling her neck… Lydia’s everything.

He looks away.

“So are these… all of them, from mythology? Of all countries?” Masons asks.

“Well, usually?” Lydia says tentatively, “They can be hybrid too, or just monsters of no particular mythology. In that case you check the most similar creature in the book.”

“What if a creature is not in the Bestiary?”

“Impossible.”

“What if a creature exists but is not in _this_ book?”

“What do you mean?”

“How’re you sure it doesn’t lack anything?”

“Which part of the word ‘encyclopedia’ is not clear to you?”

“Yeah but a creature might be supernatural and not be defined like that? In that case we can’t find it in here.”

“And how can a creature be defined other than supernatural?” The annoyance in her tone barely hides the shade of curiosity.

“I don’t know...historical...religious...”

Lydia watches him; her look thoughtful, distant, as she considers his words.

“Impossible,” she finally states again.

She doesn’t sound as convinced as the first time.

* * *

 

**PRESENT**

 

They haven’t talked about it the whole ride home, so when Stiles pulls out and stops in front of Lydia’s driveway and she pops out of the jeep without a word, rushing into the house, he feels dizzy, upset.

After so many years chasing her, it’s almost automatic to follow her now.

He crosses the entryway a few seconds after her and spots Mrs. Martin standing dumb frozen in the middle of the evening room, watching her daughter rushing upstairs and Stiles following suit.

“Hi, mom.”

“Hey Mrs. Martin!”

Panting, he reaches for her and gets in her room, so familiar now and yet strangely cold. Lydia starts pacing, hands rubbing her face, passing them through her hair, without resting.

“Lydia, calm–“

“I will not calm down!” She shouts back, not even bothering to meet his eyes.

“You heard Scott! He says he’s not sure, they’re not sure about anything, okay? Besides, even if it was the Wild Hunts we won against them once, we can fight them again!”

“It’s not them,” she mutters, still pacing around the room.

“How you so sure?”

She misses a step. For a second her eyes widen as if in a moment of realization but it’s brief; it’s one of those rare times he can’t read her and it’s so, so frustrating. But then she starts walking again like none of this just happened and says, “Believe me, if it was them I’d know.”

“Okay Lydia, why do you act like this all the time, mm?” he snaps back. “What’s your problem?”

She finally stops and looks at him slightly disoriented. “...What?”

"It's just-- it seems like you're always fighting against my theories and plans lately," he rushes to explain. ”You do it and you don’t even try to come up with something better, you just stay there criticizing and going against my way but you don’t help me find a new one! And in the meantime Scott, Malia and the others are getting _sick_. So if you have a problem, Lydia, just tell me now!”

“What… you think I don’t care about them? About _Scott?”_ Her voice is so hurt Stiles feels his own heart clenching.

“I think you’re acting like you don’t care _enough.”_

“Just because I don’t agree with a plan of yours?” She cries out.

“We used to make plans _together,_ remember? It’d be easier if it still worked that way!”

“It does!”

“SO WHAT’S THE PROBLEM.”

“THAT I’M _DONE.”_

Then, to both their surprise, she bursts into tears. But when Stiles tries to move towards her, she steps back, shouting again between the tears, “I was done in sophomore when I was left bleeding on a field! But then Jackson had to turn into a fucking lizard and it just couldn’t be over already. I was done when my best friend died and I literally _felt_ her death, and everyone was so fucked up I thought that was it but no, the supernatural couldn’t just wait for us to recover.” She says all of this in one breath, with trembling voice and her face still wet from the recent tears.

“And three months ago,” she continues after a pause, “When you finally came back… when you almost got _erased_ … I was so, _so_ done, Stiles.” She looks at him with pleading eyes, as if she’s begging him to understand and suddenly his knees go weak.

“Lydia–“

“I thought I was done with this but now here I am, trying to handle this–“

“ _We_ have to handle this!” He takes two long strides and hugs her.

Lydia startles in his arms, clearly not expecting this. She tries to wiggle out of his embrace at first but soon she gives up and rests her head on his chest, now damp from her tears.

“Shh, It’s gonna be okay, Lyds. We’re dealing with this together.” She shakes her head against his body, her own shaking as well from the sobs she lets out in desperation. Stiles wraps her even tighter then, one hand tangled in her hair, the other pressed on her back, underneath her shirt.

Why does she think she’s alone in this? Why is she always _against_ them?

“Stiles.” Her feeble voice tells him it’s not the right moment to ask. He pulls apart and looks at her. “I’m tired,” she whispers.

Stiles nods, trying not to think about how _beautiful_ she is even after having sobbed so hard.

Instead, he takes her hand and leads her to her own bed. He takes her heels off, unbuttons her jacket and lifts her legs under the sheets, joining her as soon as she’s adjusted herself in the bed and made him room.

She falls asleep about five minutes later, cradled by Stiles’ big arms and protected by his love for her.

* * *

 

He’s been watching her for almost fifteen minutes– well, watching her back.

She’s wearing his old Spider-Man t-shirt, the one that she took and used as pajamas with the excuse of it being only one size smaller than his current one.

It’s an original Marvel’s copy, so he would’ve been mad in normal circumstances. Then again, Lydia’s never been a normal circumstance to him. Looking hot in a super hero’s t-shirt is definitely not a normal circumstance either.

Finally, he gets up from the bed, giving up on the criminology book she bought him a while ago and that he’s currently rereading before classes start to refresh his mind.

He’s always admired her for her capacity of focusing. Her head hasn’t lifted the whole time she started studying, not even when she stopped writing to tie her hair in a long pony tail with her look still fixed on equations he couldn’t even spell.

The peaceful air in the room is like a silent lullaby to their minds and souls. It’s not the first time they’ve been so domestic around each other but every time is just a piece more to add to the big puzzle of how their life could be together; and Stiles couldn’t be more excited to find it all out.

With a last glance to the text still flashing on his phone, Stiles approaches Lydia and leans over to her. He places a soft kiss to her head, and she finally looks away from her books. He moves lower and begins to trace gentle kisses along her neck, sweet and lingering like he does when he wakes her up in the morning.

She moans and tilts her head automatically, “Stiles…”

“We have to go, babe,” he whispers against her smooth skin.

“I don’t want to.”

He chuckles, “I know trivial zeros are way funnier than this but,” he pecks her pulse point, “I think it’s gonna be important.”

“You always think it’s gonna be important,” Lydia argues with a grin. In the meantime one of her hands had made its way to his scalp, pressing his face more into her collarbone.

“It kinda is?”

“Well, can’t we just skip a meeting? A single one?”

“Lydia–“

“And stay here, doing some kind of different researches…” Her hand moves underneath his tee and slightly scratches on his shoulders.

He has a good minute of sex flashbacks before he regains composure and clears his throat, “Lydia.”

She sighs, her hand dropping on her lap. “Fine.”

And as to remark her annoyance, she gets up, goes past him and unceremoniously takes off her shirt, leaving him gaping at her bare body as she slowly -and oh so painfully- dresses up in front of him.

  


Only two cars are parked in the clinic’s front, so it’s quite a surprise when they get inside and find the whole pack welcoming them, instead.

He throws a quizzical look to Scott who for his part just shrugs and looks away. For some reason he sees Malia do the same. As for Liam and Mason, they rarely act like two separate people anyway.

“How long have you been here?” Lydia asks to the others.

“Me and Malia arrived not long before you guys,” Scott answers. “Liam and Mason came here after school.”

“Why?” Lydia inquires again.

Mason is about to reply when Deaton appears from behind him, white coat and gloves and all.

“Mason actually had a brilliant idea that made me reconsider my theories.” He gives the boy a warm pat on the shoulder and Mason brightens like a kid. Stiles gets it; when you have no supernatural power or physical skill, your mind is the only thing you can count on to be helpful. Well, unless you lose it.

“It was… it was nothing really. Just a suggestion.” Mason stutters, rubbing his head with one hand.

“Definitely a smart one, though! Despite how alerting these new facts might sound we could finally be on the right path,” Deaton says.

“Who would’ve guessed history books would come in handy one day,” Liam interferes, more to himself than to the pack.

“Right?” Mason lights up, “I mean, for a part I wish I’m wrong but it’d be pretty cool if–“

“Can someone _please_ tell me what the hell it’s going on,” Lydia blurts out, almost hysterical.

Everyone turns to her, eyes wide as if she had just let out one of her screams. Stiles thinks about telling her to calm down, but recalling her reaction at last time he did so, he opts for shutting up, comforting her with a hand on the small of her back, instead.

“It’s about the horse riders?” Scott breaks the tense silence.

Mason nods and Lydia’s spine goes rigid under his palm.

“We thought– well, _Mason_ thought, that even though these recent events might lead to the Wild Hunt for some similarities, maybe it’s not them,” Deaton says.

“You told me, when I first joined the pack,” Mason interrupts the doctor and nods at Lydia, who startles a little by being addressed. “You told me that whenever we look for a creature that’s not in the Bestiary yet we gotta search for the most similar one. Which in this case it’s the Wild Hunt… but I mean, it can’t be them, right? ‘Cause we fought them already and it never happen to you guys what’s happening now– to get weaker and weaker.”

At those words, Malia looks down, visibly upset, and Scott immediately circles her shoulders and tugs her closer to him. The alpha throws a scolding glance to Mason who, catching the lack of tact, gives him an apologetic look.

“Anyway… we have to look for the most similar creature but it’s still _not_ what we need to find out. So I thought that maybe it’d be better to check somewhere else,” he concludes.

“That’s when I had the idea,” Deaton interferes and the pack turns to watch him now. Seen from an outsider’s point of view, Stiles bets they must look like the audience of a ping-pong match. “I analyzed everything that occurred these past months, like, event by event, abnormality by abnormality and… well, it sounds ridiculous but–“

“What.” Lydia’s voice comes out like a tremble and she doesn’t even bother to mask her annoyance.

Stiles starts rubbing her back, realizing just now how her body’s shaking too, but at the softness of his touch she seems to relax a little and all the questions in his head ebb away, for now.

“Doc,” Stiles interjects. “Get to the point.”

“It looks like a modern apocalypse,” states finally Deaton.

And then, to everyone’s horror, Lydia screams.

It’s nothing like a banshee scream, but more like a shriek of pain; sudden, hurting and surprisingly brief.

“Lydia!” Stiles urges forward, followed by Scott and Malia beside him. But Lydia bends down in pain, hands cradling her own head as if it’s about to explode and despite the fact that she’s hiding her face, Stiles glimpses tears at the corners of her eyes.

“It’s– it’s nothing,” she pants, backing up to the closest chair. The wince of pain she lets out says the opposite.

“Lydia…” He kneels in front of her, the pack quite behind him, already knowing that none of their curative powers have effects anymore. Her hands are trembling against her hears, even despite the pressure she’s using to cradle her head, but this time they don’t stop when Stiles takes them and replaces them with his.

“Lydia,” he repeats her her name like a plea, begging whoever can to stop her pain. His thumbs draw abstract figures on her temples, her cheeks, the side of her head… anything to make her feel better.

“It’s just a headache,” Lydia says, her voice weak.

“Look at me.” He ignores her. He has time for questions later. “Shh, look at me okay?”

She does so, and lifts her head enough so that their eyes meet. The beautiful usual green of her iris is circled in blood, reddish spots staining her eyes as they land on his golden ones that only partly reflect her panic.

And after that, the memory crosses his mind like a movie.

With both his hands pressed gently on her cheeks, Stiles closes the distance and kisses her.

According to logic, if one’s struggling to breath, shutting their mouth with your own wouldn’t be the best of moves. Then again, logic never really applied to them.

The moment Stiles’ lips touch hers, Lydia shoulders visibly relax. After a gentle startle, she closes her eyes and allows herself to melt into him, exhaling a shaky breath through her nose.

He’s positive she must have forgotten about the presence of the pack behind them, from the way her hands go to rest on his thighs bent in front of her. There’s nothing malicious in her actions; it’s just a search for contact, a reminder she needs to stay grounded and warm and _safe_. Whether the edge is just a blur or clear, it’s up to many things.

He pulls apart only when he’s made sure her breath went back to regular and the cold sweat disappeared from her neck. She opens her eyes after him, and when their looks meet, she’s staring at him with a mix of gratitude and dread at the same time, a combination he can’t really decipher.

“Okay?” he whispers.

She nods and tries to stand up, uncertain in her feet, before Stiles urges to help her.

The wince of pain hasn’t left her face, he notices, and Stiles never really believed that a kiss could have any sort of medical property, but the ache must be bearable now, by the way she straightens and looks as fiery as before.

Regaining her composure, Lydia clears her throat and mumbles, “‘M okay. Just a migraine.”

“That wasn’t _just–“_ Stiles starts to retort but Lydia cuts him off.

“You we’re talking about an apocalypse,” she addresses Deaton.

The doctor looks startled for a moment, before shaking his head as to clear his mind, and immediately goes back to where he was left, “Yeah,” he says, “considering all the things you kids told me that happened, I reckon they might have similarities with the catastrophes of the divine apocalypse.

“But there’s more,” he adds, “I’ve made a few researches about it. So, as you might know, the original apocalypse told in the New Testament has as main creators the four horsemen, one for each plague they were appointed to bring to Earth in order to punish humankind for their sins. And well, there are several interpretations for their mission but for one or another reason, the apocalypse is always defined as the end of the world.”

“Why not,” Stiles sighs.

“ _But_ ,” Deaton ignores him, “now, the only ones affected by these _plagues_ are werewolves. Or anyone with supernatural powers in general, anyway. So replacing a couple of terms in the story, it means that someone – those who would be the horsemen– is trying to cleanse the world from the sin – the supernatural.”

“You kidding?” Malia snaps, “Like ordinary hunters weren’t enough trouble per se, already.”

“I know how this sounds but it’s the most coherent hypothesis I could come up with.”

“Oh come on, you can’t really believe that _the horsemen of the apocalypse_ can be real.” Lydia’s shaky voice comes out more scared than indignant, like she probably wanted to.

“Lydia…” Stiles scolds her, recalling her their recent fight.

“Would you be surprised at this point?” Mason blurts out. “After everything we’ve been through? That we’ve seen?”

Stiles thinks that it’s hilarious how he’s the one to tell so, even though he can only fancy the things they fought before he joined the pack. Everything and _everyone_ they’ve lost…

“I’m only saying that one thing it’s mythology, another one it’s the Bible…” Lydia replies, slightly irritated.

“For heretics the edge is not that neat,” Mason shrugs.

“These are just suppositions based on analogies!” Lydia retorts, looking desperate.

“Yeah I mean, one thing it’s a war but an _apocalypse_?! How do you even do that?” says Malia, “and even is it’s them, we haven’t seen a thing, nor a track, nor a hint. How do you even start an apocalypse without being here?”

“That’s the point.” Deaton rushes to his library and takes a tiny, old book. The cover is yellowish, as well as its pages. Stiles tries to read the title but it’s not in English, nor in another language he recognizes.

 _“I cavalieri dell’apocalisse…_ ” Lydia reads, “it’s Italian.”

The doctor nods. “It means ‘The knights of the apocalypse’. It was a secret society created in Italy at the end of the seventeenth century to defend the Catholic Church against the expected Antichrist. Back then, the founder had gathered up eighty knights to pursue his political goals.”

“I don’t see the connection,” Scott interjects, a mix of fear and annoyance hidden in his tone.

“What if now the antichrist is the supernatural and they’re trying to collect an army here to fight it?”

“These are… very disconnected,” Lydia comments, skeptical.

“Well if I was a fallen conqueror and found out that a group of people followed my own ideology for a while and made a group of supporters of it, I’d take inspiration from it to rise again,” replies Deaton.

“You still talk about them as if they were real and _living,”_ Lydia hisses in exasperation.

“The idea is to consider them so, if we want to follow a path!” Stiles interferes before Deaton has the time to answer her. “It’s kinda the base of the scientific method – to create suppositions and go on with it in order to find a theory.”

“That’s not really the scientific method.” Mason mutters, but Stiles ignores him.

“If this is true, we could track this supposed army and trace it back to the horsemen.”

“I’m sorry I–“ Lydia looks like she’s on the edge of another ‘migraine’ attack, as if she’s about to go off at any time. “I don’t believe that.”

“Lydia, you okay?” Scott urges forward and places a hand on Lydia’s, just before remembering he can’t do a thing to ease her pain.

He doesn’t remove his hand, and Lydia gives it a gentle squeeze and a weak smile to thank him, but soon the smile contorts in a flinch a she has to free both her hands to massage her temple.

“I’m not feeling well actually, I should probably go home.” She pats Scott gently on the shoulder, gives Malia a quick hug, and waves goodbye to the pack, as she makes her way to the door.

“Hey, I’m coming with you.” Stiles runs after her and takes her hand, forcing her to look up at him.

“You can stay here and take a ride back home with Scott or Liam. I’ll be fine, I can drive.” Lydia smiles at him in reassurance but he can still glimpse the pain in her eyes and it takes him no longer than five seconds to shut the door behind him and pull her with him in the jeep.

“Stiles–!” she starts protesting but he cuts her off.

“No one drives my jeep,” he replies matter-of-factly, climbs in the car and starts the engine.

Lydia sighs, resigned but with a wholehearted smile on her lips as she tries to refrain a laugh. With no more protests, she takes her seat beside him, as she always does, and rests her head on his shoulder all the way back home.

* * *

 

“We should go to the ER,” Stiles tells her as he comes back from the bathroom with a damp towel and a glass of water.

It’s the second time that night Lydia wakes up screaming in pain; every scream seems more painful than the other and Stiles doesn’t think he could handle a third one. He had watched her hurting once already and it was enough for a lifetime.

“I don’t need a doctor.” She massages her temples and makes her statement even less convincing.

“Lyds, this is _not_ a simple migraine and I– I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to make you feel better.”

“Stiles…”

“If you don’t want to take care of yourself, let _me._ Please.” He would have wanted to sound more confident for her, stronger, instead of showing her his whole desperation. Maybe this way she would listen and he would save her for the umpteenth time.

“Come here,” she whispers in the dark, stretching one hand to inviting him to join her in the bed. He takes her hand, but instead of sitting next to her on the edge of the mattress he kneels before, reverently, his palms both resting on her thighs. With no hesitation, they lean forward in sync and meet halfway in a tender kiss, which turns hungrier as she shifts closer and pulls him between her legs.

“I need _you_ ,” she whispers desperately against his lips, causing him to moan as she tugs him by the collar of his flannel.

It’s something they’re still getting used to – these healing moments of intimacy. All they could do no more than a few months ago was holding hands or sharing the same bed at the best. Having it all, instead, is quite overwhelming. Now they’ve learnt how to cling onto each other, how far they can actually go to feel good and _safe_. How deep their relationship can build inside of their chests to anchor up with one another. They’re not afraid to be selfish anymore, just like they have no brakes when it comes to give, even more if it helps one from slipping away from the other.

He would kiss the pulsing vein on her neck, just like he knows she loves, to ease her nerves whenever the perspective of a bright, but still challenging future has the upper hand on her fears. She would make love to him if nightmares get too real sometimes and counting his fingers still wouldn’t be enough to proof him wrong. They would fuck mercilessly whenever the void makes room inside of them and the desperate need of emotions overcomes any other.

He doesn’t know what the problem is right now, doesn’t know whether the pain is limited to her body or has something to do with feelings too; despite he _does_ want to know, he also knows that she must have a good reason for not telling him yet. They will figure it out, together, as always.

Until then, healing is.

Moving simultaneously, he climbs onto the bed and she makes him room, lifting her shirt in the process and tossing it away. He mirrors her at once and he’s immediately above her, nose buried in the smooth cavern of her neck as he leaves wet kisses along the path of her collarbone, her sternum, and slowly down on one breast, while the other one’s left to the ministrations of his right hand.

She arches against him, craving for more contact, and at the feeling of his hands all over her body she lets out an appreciative noise. It soon turns into a moan the moment she flips them over without warning, and straddles his hips in a way that makes him see blank for a minute. All he can feel is her, her, _her._

“Stiles…” her voice is so low, the word comes out more like a pant, as if she’s struggling to breath and wouldn’t mind to choke by saying his name. “I love you so much. So, _so_ much. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you. I never will.”

“I love you too.” It’s reductive. He feels so much more, it is so much deeper than what words can express that it gets frustrating sometimes. “I’ve never loved anyone _but_ you.” He grins lovingly, rephrasing her own words and kissing her harder on her already swollen lips.

Lydia sits on his lap more steadily and circles his neck in a warm hug, leaning to catch his lips once again and starting moving her hips against his at the same time.

The kiss is slow, her thrusts even more, as if she was trying to memorize every second of that moment. She clings onto him with so much passion and desperation he thinks she might be afraid to let go, scared if she did so he would slip away from her.

Stiles suffocates a groan to whisper loving words in her ear, just to make her feel sure about it, about _him,_ that he won’t go anywhere but with her. She responds with another kiss, first on his cheek, soft, then back on his flushed mouth that doesn’t take her much to open with her tongue. He smiles against her mouth and for a moment, he doesn’t even hear the rumbles of the thunders outside.

It’s only when Lydia pulls back to catch her breath, eyes still flattering, that he realizes the shade of green that illuminates her face.

His eyes widen at once, dumbstruck in surprise, and immediately turns around to check through the only window in his room and… shit.

With a hollow of dread in his stomach, he’s left breathless for a while. Lydia’s frozen hands on his shoulders signal him she must reflect his own expression.

“They’re coming,” she breathes out, her voice shaky with horror.

Outside, a bright green gash of clouds has just started painting the dark night sky, making its way among the stars and spreading dangerously, like the worst of threats. The silent vortex emits another lightning, and Stiles’ room flashes green for a blink of eye, before turning back to black.

By the time the second thunder roars in the air and the sky turns completely green, Lydia is screaming again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the 100000th time to Catherine for doing her magic and fix my fics like she only can do. 
> 
> Sooo how have you guys been doing? I'm sorry for this hiatus but it was very much needed. I hope i made it worth it tho!  
> As always, people will be well-fed with pizza if they leave a nice comment. Don't lost your chance. 
> 
> I really REALLY hope you liked the chapter, lemme know! To the next update, folks xx


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s forced to repress the scream she had held in her throat, ready to smash them on the ground, without actually considering the consequences.  
> Either she attacks them, and she breaks the deal, or she doesn’t, and Stiles gets killed.  
> “Lydia…?”  
>  _“I’m thinking.”_  
>  About how to save us, she wants to add. But she can’t, of course she can’t. If she loses him… she can’t. She won’t, she made a deal to avoid it after all, they can’t hurt him, they promised, made her promise.  
> Didn’t they?

_ “See that’s the problem. You don’t care about getting hurt, but you know how I’d feel? I’d be devastated! And if you died I would literally go out of my freaking mind.”  _

* * *

  
_ “ _ They’re coming.”

Her own voice comes like an echo in her head, now barely aware of Stiles’ presence and focused on the threatening green cloud above them. 

Lydia slips off his lap and stands with him, both looking out the window in terror, and she would feel cold at the lack of his body against hers if she wasn’t so  _ damn _ frozen inside already. 

They stay like this, paralyzed and panting face to face without looking at each other, before Stiles makes the first move and starts putting his shirt back on. 

Their pre-battle routine proceeds silently. He dresses up, she washes her face. He texts Scott, she texts Malia. He almost has a panic attack, she almost lets the voices consume her. She kisses him to stop his nightmare, and he kisses her back to stop hers. 

For a brief moment, a scared and not-so-deep part of her fears this might be their last kiss, so that’s why she longs on it a little too longer.

_ That’s it, _ she thinks _. Here starts the end. _

_ “ _ Come on,” Stiles whispers against her mouth. His arms seem to struggle to leave her body, but there’s no way she’s going to encourage him to go ahead with it. 

“Let’s go kick some asses.” 

* * *

 

She has a flashback at seeing all their cars gathered in the high school’s parking lot. Actually, she might have more than one, seeing how many times she witnessed that scenario, but Lydia can’t help to go back to a few months ago when they all met in that same place, at night like they’re currently doing, forced to face the supernatural in order to save the town. Except for the fact that said time their aim was to save Stiles, while now? Now they barely know who they’re fighting against. 

Well, them but  _ her. _

It’s true only in part, though. She knows it’s them; it’s like a sort of electric charge that traces along her spine like a snake and stops at her back, right behind her heart, like an alarm of what side she  _ chose _ to be with. In practice, she never knew what she would have met on that side. 

Now that she’s about to find out, Lydia feels too scared and yet too late to back up. 

Pulled by Stiles’ hand in hers, she crosses the rod that marks the edge of the school’s property and follows him to meet the pack.

“Oh, thank god,” is the first thing Scott says with a sigh of relief, as he spots his best friend coming. Lydia is forced to make room for the Alpha when he approaches them to fold Stiles in a bear-hug. 

“Woah, Scotty, you’re  _ this _ happy to see me?” Stiles deadpans, but still returning the hug with a grin. 

“I thought you were lost again.” Scott’s voice is muffled by Stiles’ flannel, but it comes clear as a scream to Lydia. 

That’s when she clicks; she had that same thought, that same reactions as Scott’s not longer than a couple of months ago, but she’s been so selfish not to think she wasn’t the only one who missed him so much. He doesn’t mean the world to her only. She’s keeping him alive for them too. For  _ Scott.  _

Silent, Lydia closes the small distance that Scott had put minutes before with his impetus and instinctively, she joins them in the hug. She feels Scott’s arms react at once, and soon enough Lydia finds herself almost trapped between the warm bodies of the most important men in her life. 

It doesn’t last long. As the umpteenth roar of a thunder echoes in the air, the trio jumps slightly and regains their composure, the sad smile still stuck on each of their faces. 

“Thought we cleared this up already. It’s not the Wild Hunt,” Stiles tells Scott with a grin. 

“Yeah well, you know, childhood’s trauma,” and despite the sarcastic grin Scott returns, Lydia can catch the shade behind his tone and she doesn’t miss the quick glance of panic he throws at her once they separate for good from the embrace and he walks back by Malia’s side. 

“Hey, you okay?” Stiles whispers to her ear when the rest of pack starts planning the next move. 

“Yeah.” She shakes her head as to make room in her mind, now full of scenarios of a battle she’ll have to fight against the wrong people.  _ Her _ people. “Just a bit scared.” 

“Me too,” he confesses, rubbing his large hand on her back. “I mean, if this is truly the apocalypse, this town is fucked up.” 

Lydia chuckles, “You now sound  _ so _ much like your father.” 

“Whatever.” He shrugs, and takes her hand, “I knew they needed us. Again.” 

She shakes her head again, smiling and slightly comforted at his ability to ease the nerves even when literally at the edge of an apocalyptic battle. 

Lydia’s about to reply with another sarcastic remark when Malia calls her. 

“We were thinking…” the brunette starts, “they wouldn’t appear from nothing right? So there has to be a portal or something like last time… maybe–“

“I’m not gonna find it, Malia,” Lydia stops her already, knowing where she’s going with it.

“Last time it worked, though!” 

“Last time it was about  _ Stiles,”  _ Lydia states, deadly calm. Malia had grown too fond of this whole metal detector-y thing Stiles put up with. 

“Yeah but these guys should be coming from a sort of underworld dimension, shouldn’t they? Which is a dead-related thing. So maybe we were hoping, since you’re a banshee–“ 

Lydia wants to shout back, to fight all those expectant eyes now staring at her, checking her out as if she could only turn on the switch and go haunting into the woods with no consequences on it. 

“Yeah, it doesn’t work like that,” she finally snaps, careful not to meet their look. She might have learned how to control her powers on a fight and be able to sense things but fugue states are still a blur sometimes. 

“And I refuse to let her go sleepwalking around the woods in search of a supposed portal with a possible supernatural fight around the corner,” Stiles punctuates as to remark her statement and bringing her a little closer to him. 

Malia mutters a weak “okay”, looking down as if in shame but seconds them right away.

After a few minutes of silence Scott goes, “We could just try to check the area under the storm?” 

And at his words, Lydia’s attention is suddenly drawn to the spot of the woods where – now she notices – the lightning seems to converge. The effect it gives makes it hard to understand whether the thunder is coming from the sky to meet on that area, or if it’s something among the trees to generate them and blow them out. 

She’s also scared to find it out. 

But before she can have a say in the matter, Scott is already leading the group towards the opposite side of the parking lot. Stiles’ hand, concrete on her back, is pushing her forward, forcing her legs to move without her volition. 

The green lights coming from above them replace the soft moonlight she grew to hate so much in the last few years, but she would now pray to see in the night sky so badly instead of those thick, cold, greenish clouds, breathtaking in a way that’s so far from beautiful. 

They’re like a giant ceiling over them, solid and suffocating, towering over their heads and threatening to smash them on the ground. It’s like a veil of venom, terrifying and yet so hypnotizing, just like a fog…

_ Fog? _

The realization hits her the moment a chill travels her spine and rushes to her chest.

Looking away from the sky, Lydia feels frozen on her feet when she looks down to find the source of that sudden fear. She’s not that surprised to see the dense haze spread across the field, slither between her feet like a snake made of smoke. 

Instinctively, her eyes follow its path, knowing already what she would find at the end of it but still too spellbound to help herself. 

She holds her head up again when the first dog growls so loud that the ground shakes a bit under her feet. 

Stiles is the first one who turns his head to the animal; Scott follows suit and then the rest of pack. The black, enormous dogs she had witnessed once already look even bigger now, but the louder their snarls get, the more Lydia fears to distinguish her name in those growls. 

She doesn’t have the time to focus much on that, because the pack of hounds suddenly darts forward and the distance that before felt like miles, now smells like blood. 

Before she can process it, Malia falls at her side. Someone else screams near her but the shriek is covered by the ferocious growl of the hound, closer and closer to her position and making her freeze, stuck at the ground, terrified. 

She’s barely aware of Stiles’ hand against her skin, even less of the general running around her. The two packs collide at Scott’s first growl, and as foreseen, the battle is inevitable. 

Soon enough she finds herself with her back against Stiles’ and three giant dogs circling them and pacing around as if to decide which one of them is worth the first bite. 

Behind her, she feels Stiles literally holding his breath, his hand finds hers to shield her as much as he can and at that Lydia wants to cry. Tears start forming in her eyes when she realizes those three pairs of black, pupil-less eyes are all pointing at him so eagerly, like she is a ghost. She’s supposed to be  _ helping  _ them. She’s forced to repress the scream she had held in her throat, ready to smash them on the ground, without actually considering the consequences. 

Either she attacks them, and she breaks the deal, or she doesn’t, and Stiles gets killed. 

“Lydia…?”

“ _ I’m thinking.”  _

_ About how to save us _ , she wants to add. But she can’t, of course she can’t. If she loses him… she can’t. She won’t, she made a deal to avoid it after all, they can’t hurt him, they promised, made  _ her  _ promise. 

Didn’t they? 

She thinks so, and one of the beasts jumps forward, towards him. Without thinking, she pulls Stiles behind her and she hears him fall beside her, screaming her name, but her eyes are shut, her heart low in her chest and her hopes way too high. 

There’s a blow of air that has nothing to do with her trembling, a cry of pain fills her ears and then turns into silence. 

She jumps lightly at the feeling of a gentle hand caressing her arm, so familiar and loving that makes her slowly open her eyes. 

Scott Mccall is staring at her, the lifeless body of a beast harmless behind him and Lydia only has the time to wonder how that happened before the rest of the animals suddenly fade to smoke, disappearing. A few feet away, Malia and Liam are busy handling another dog, which once defeated, dissolves just like the other. 

It’s all so much to process that when Scott pulls her into a hug and she closes her eyes in his comforting arms, Lydia thinks she might had dreamt it all after all. 

“ _ What did you think you were doing.” _

Stiles’ deadly calm voice, but still shaky with a mix of anger and worry, comes from behind her. 

She had just turned around when his strong hand pulls her out from Scott’s embrace so that she’s facing him completely, now staring at the fire in those golden eyes, so wide in terror and holding a scolding look.

“Stiles, I’m  _ fine,  _ don’t–“

“You can’t do that okay? Put your life in danger that way.” He starts keeping his tone low but as he goes on, letting out his worries, the voice rises as well. Lydia gets closer and tangles one hand with his as to reassure him, but he doesn’t react. 

“You go off, you put yourself in front of me with no chance of winning, without even  _ attacking _ , and I’ve– shit, I’ve seen you fall in front of my eyes so many times,” he’s panting now, his eyes blank and filled at the same time with memories of nightmares. When he looks back at her there’s so much sorrow in his look, that Lydia feels her heart clenching so hard to make her hard to breath. “Lydia, just  _ please _ , stay away from death. For me?” 

Oh. That’s a low blow.

How to tell him now, how much  _ into _ death she actually is.

She holds back the tears, swallows the lump formed in her throat and gets closer, trying not to look at his imploring eyes, otherwise the mask will shatter. 

Finally, he holds her hand back, and her arms find their place around his torso. It’s so different from the recent hug she shared with Scott, so much more intimate and desperate and  _ so  _ right. Stiles holds her back, inhaling the scent of her hair and tightening the grip so much to almost block the air in her lungs. She feels anchored to his body, his oxygen becomes hers, his warmth her home. Death doesn’t feel that close to her now.

The thought crosses her mind, and she’s the first to pull away. Lydia knows the others are patiently waiting for them, but she still feels the pressure of their looks on them, so with a last glance at Stiles, she gives him the best reassuring smile, hoping it doesn’t show how sad as she is inside, then steps on her tiptoes and kisses him softly on the lips.

“Okay?” she whispers.

“I think so,” he smiles back.

The smile had just started spreading on her face too when Malia’s voice freezes her from behind her.

“Guys…!”

The piercing sound of caws follows right after her warning, and suddenly what had seemed like an echo now amplifies gradually as Lydia spots a black flock flinging at them like a hurricane. 

She barely have the time to scream, before Stiles reacts first and pulls her to run away, into the woods where the rest of the pack was already heading. 

The ravens fly like darts behind them; Malia is the first to stop at some point to try to slay them with her claws, Liam and Scott imitating her at once, but the birds are too fast and too many to block their way. It’s like a black vortex ready to suck them in, and all their attempts to stop it look more like catching butterflies, to better say, useless. 

They find themselves completely surrounded by trees when the ravens – those that survived – leave, and Lydia for the first time in years feels disoriented and  _ sick _ for it.

“How long did we run for?” Malia asks, panting, which is unusual for her.

“About a mile, I think,” Scott replies and places an arm around her waist to support her.

“I don't remember the woods extending so far,” Stiles mutters by her side. 

“Me neither,” Scott says, and the whole pack nods in agreement, now more worried than ever. 

Lydia remains silent, pondering Stiles’ statement for a moment. She checks the trees around her, so unfamiliar and cold and fake. The more she keeps staring at the woods, the more she’s convinced of her inability to come out with a good excuse for this. They’ve all been so fond of this place for way too much time to let them believe there’s nothing rare about it – after about a mile running the trees would be supposed to be lessening, while now they’re literally in the middle of an actual forest, not unlike the one Scott was bitten years ago.

Lydia meets the alpha’s look, already fixed on her and reflecting the same memory. The look in his dark eyes is not nostalgic as she imagined, though, his lips don’t form a sad smile. There’s only concern, which quickly escalates to surprise, and finally dread as his eyes lower onto her figure. 

At that, Lydia realizes how much taller she is. Even despite the distance, Scott and her seem almost at eye level. She feels dazed, the only concrete thing is the ground under her feet that Scott doesn’t seem to be able to look away from. It doesn’t take her long to understand why.

She stumbles on her own feet, almost falling down, when the Nemeton starts shaking underneath her.

And just then, when the first smile fades away from Liam’s face, so hopeless and scared, that’s when the chaos begins.

Howling, cawing and neighing echo around the woods, even before the monsters show up. Malia and Liam turn around at the same time to fight another hound, now looking more ferocious than before. Scott in the meantime has started running towards a bunch of figures that, quite ironically, remind her of the dementors in Harry Potter. She would normally laugh at the association, if she wasn’t frozen with fear.

Beside her, baseball bat in one hand already, Stiles tries to knock another dog out, and two other beasts that she recognizes as foxes, jump at him smashing him to the ground. 

“STILES.” She rushes forward to help him. The side of his head is wounded, but except for a fresh cut, he looks safe. 

“Lydia, behind you!” 

Then she glimpses two pairs of razor-like fangs, so close to freeze the blood in her veins; humans and animals stand facing each other. 

“I’ve seen all of this already,” Stiles murmurs, breaking the silence.

“...What..?”

“The Bestiary. They’re all in there; the hounds, the foxes with bloody eyes, the doppelgänger, even the ravens.”

_ Harbingers of Death,  _ Lydia thinks. She remembers the black mark in each of their sections. There’s one identical in hers after all. 

“Yeah, I remember them too.” A growl shuts her up at once and she’s forced to face it.

The white fur of the animals is a stark contrast with the red of their eyes, making them look pure and lethal at the same time. The beasts look back at her, angry and hungry, yet not like she’s prey. They look at her in expectation, waiting for her to make room for them, to leave them at their real target. Waiting for her to be at their side. 

“Stiles, run,” she tells him without turning around. Her tone calm, voice relaxed, hiding the scream she’s holding inside.

“I’m not going anywhere.” If he wasn’t just as terrified as she is, Lydia’s positive she would hear an amused laugh behind his voice, as to remark how ridiculous it would be of him to leave her. Now the sentence comes out for what it is instead, a fact. He doesn’t want to leave, as she wouldn’t leave him either, and the innocence in his tone is making it so hard for her to sound convincing, even just to herself. 

“Stiles,  _ please.”  _ He shakes his head, eyes fixed on hers obstinately. “We’ll meet at the school in a hour. I promise.” 

“You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna leave you with  _ them.”  _ He points at the foxes near, and perhaps because of the energy of his gestures or for the anger in his tone, the animals growl louder than ever and step forward, licking their fangs in anticipation. 

She jumps forward in front of him at the same time, and throws a wild look at the beasts with daring she didn’t think she had, but seems enough to hold them in place. When she glances back at Stiles he looks pale, confused and astonished all at once as he stares back at her. 

“I can handle them. I’ll be fine.” 

“Lydia…I can’t...“ 

“Stiles,  _ please, _ go,” she begs.

“You’ve already–“ 

“I know, but it’s different now.” She moves closer to him, somehow confident that the foxes won’t attack as long as she’s beside him. She takes both his hands in hers and gently kisses one palm, “Trust me.” 

“You know I do.” He’s pleading her with his eyes, imploring her not to ask him such a thing. She doesn’t take it back.

Lifting one hand on his face, she reverently traces the thin line of his lower lip with her thumb, before replacing the finger with her own mouth. She kisses him softly, and asks him to go one more time, more desperately than she’s willing to admit. 

A tear escapes and crosses his sharp jawline like a wound but this time he obeys silently, keeping contact with her hand as long as he can before even the last finger is forced to disentangle from her grip. And he walks away.

Lydia watches his figure disappearing into the woods, traveling through the path they’ve made before, as she mentally stops the beasts from following him. They still point him with their blood-filled eyes, and seem to struggle in their resistance but at least they remain at their place.

She hears the muffled sound of screams in his directions, but none of them belongs to him; right then she allows herself to face back the enemy, with no certainty of safety for her, and by consequence, for Stiles. 

But she has a plan.

Lydia throws a last glance over her shoulder, makes sure the pack is far away enough to ignore her. She can only hear the growls and noises among the trees, suggesting her she’s free to move. Then she begins to run. 

As expected, the foxes and other monsters that she finds on her way follow her, like she’s silently ordering them to and stops by cliff. If she wanted it, she knows she would have peeked at the school from there, the temptation of checking Stiles pulls at something inside of her and she has to remind herself that even now she’s doing it for him. If everything goes accordingly to her plan – a plan made in a minute and half under a life-or-death situation – he’ll be safe, regardless of her own.

She doesn’t need to be safe. She needs to save  _ him _ . And if she can’t break the bond, that means she’s going to use it in their favor. 

Her lack of distraction is soon challenged when a beast jumps at her, and despite her quick dodge, Lydia is not fast enough to deviate a claw. The piercing ache spreads from her shoulder where she can now spot a reddish small gash filtering through the sleeve of her top. 

Gathering back all her physical and mental strength, she ignores the pain, trying not to wince as the wave of a powerful scream starts forming in her lungs, rising and growing and exploding in her throat. 

A transparent hurricane of energy blows out in front of her when she opens her mouth and lets out of one the most powerful screams she’s ever done. The effect is immediate. Half of the bodies she hits with her shriek dissolve into ashes even before reaching the ground, the others, the bigger and probably stronger ones, still don’t take much longer. 

For a moment she remains panting, alone, her hands still stretched forward even though no more waves of power come out from them. Lydia feels empty, weak. Yet, so strong at the same time. She feels invincible, as if she could kill off a hundred monsters more, but that would be easier. Easier than what she knows is coming next. 

“This is not the plan.” 

She smirks at the glacial voice coming from behind her, purposely hiding from it.

“It’s  _ mine.”  _ Lydia turns around and holds back a gasp when she finds the pale horseman so close to her, closer than he’s ever been.

As she faces him, the other three immediately appear behind him and suddenly she doesn’t feel that powerful anymore. 

“What are you talking about?” War roars.

She lets out a long sigh, trying to gather courage and hide the desperation all together. “I want to change the deal.” 

They all laugh, clearly not amused, but the green horseman is the only one to speak, “You can’t do that, darling.” 

She makes a grimace at the appellative but decides to ignore it instead. That’s not the main focus now. It’s about  _ Stiles _ . “I… I can’t fight against them. I’m sorry, I won’t hurt my friends.”

“I think you haven’t gotten the rules clear in your head yet,” Death says, more like a whisper that gets to her blood at once and makes it stop in her heart. He gets closer and she’s petrified from fear. “It’s not for  _ you  _ to decide.” 

She licks her lips, running out of words in a way that she hadn’t planned to do at all, and she’s surprised when she tastes salt on them. The realization of her sudden tears makes her feel even smaller. 

Lydia shakes her head, all her cool already replaced by pure  _ dread _ . “I can’t,” she repeats.

Then a cold hand that feels more like a bunch of bones rather than flesh, grips her throat. For a good five seconds Lydia’s left breathless, her lips form a perfect O from both the shook and the lack of oxygen. Then slowly the hold loosens a little around her neck and the fresh air of the summertime rushes into her lungs again. 

Yet still, the hand doesn’t move away.

“I have an offer,” she breathes out. 

Death’s eyes emit green sparkles, the small nostrils dilate for fury and she feels the grip tightening again. 

Panic overcomes any other emotion and before she’s deprived of air again, Lydia speaks. Quickly, raspy and so, so desperately.

“I offer my soul!” 

The tightening stops.

All four horsemen tilt their heads in unison, curious.

“Go on,” one of them orders.

The pale one finally frees her throat and her hands automatically find their way to massage it, coughing and wincing at the contact of the bruises he left.

“Let me fight with my pack and I’ll offer you my soul. When the battle will be over, if you win, I’ll be yours in this world, and you’ll rule it.”

“A slave?” Famine smiles.

Her heart clenches at the word. “... a slave.” 

They visibly consider her offer, all four turned into a sort of robot-like mode, as if they are mentally communicating. 

After a while, the spark comes back in all four pair of eyes and the green horseman stares at her long enough to give her goosebumps all over again. 

“What if you win?” He finally says.

“...What?” 

“What if you, with your pack, and humans and all, win.” 

Lydia chuckles nervously, and a flaw in her plan starts showing, “You even think it’s a possibility?”

“Just answer,” he exhorts.

_ Think, think, think. _

_ Keep both alive.  _

_ Keep Stiles alive. _

_ “ _ What would be of you?” 

“We’d come back in our world.”

“Then… I’ll come with you.”

“In our world?”

“In your world.” 

“Let me get this right,” War interferes, taking a step forward, incredulous. “You’re basically saying that, whatever the outcome of the battle will be, you’ll stick with us and your soul will be ours?” 

“And I get to fight with my pack, yes.” 

Death narrows his eyes, sending bright green flames that are anything but warm. He studies her, tries to reach her mind – she knows by the pull she feels in her head, like a magnet trying to get everything out of her. She doesn’t let him.

When he realizes the lost fight, he sighs deeply and looks right at her, so intensively to make her feel naked, powerless. 

“Don’t mess up with us, banshee or–“

“Unfortunately, I already did,” Lydia stops him, now more impatient than ever. “So. Deal?” 

Despite the summertime, it’s cold. Colder than five minutes ago, and just  _ as  _ cold as that damn night, four months ago hell started and the green fire of it had swallowed her day by day until all that was left of her was her soul and mind. Now she’s lost them both, but she still has the love.

So thinking about Stiles’ gentle hands, those knobbly, warm fingers that touch her like she is the stars, the moon and everything beautiful they could feel, Lydia shakes the demon’s hand, so different from the one in her fantasies. 

It’s cold, even colder when all four in unison, like a chorus of angels who sing of sins and death, whisper “deal”, together. 

Looking at her phone, she reads 68F degrees on the screen, and Lydia’s never felt  _ colder _ in her life.

 

**_***_ **

 

Lydia gets to the school when the second toll of a church nearby rings for the second time that night, signaling her it’s 2 in the morning. 

Stiles doesn’t answer his phone, and she has to collect all her positive thoughts not to think about the worst. She also thinks that if something happened to him she would know, would  _ feel  _ it, at this point. It’s quite a surprise when her phone rings and Stiles’ smirking face flashes her from the screen, making her heart jumps slightly. 

“Stiles!” She lets out a sigh of relief, “Where are you?” 

“Lyds, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to worry you.”

“You okay?”

“Yeah, I just had to walk away, Scott got hurt–“

“What!”

“He’s okay, just, stay safe. Go somewhere safe okay?”

She pauses and looks around, reckoning every place nearby like worth of danger. Somewhere safe? Is there such a place when the world’s ending? 

“Lydia?” Stiles’ voice brings her back to him, comforting and filled of urgency at the same time.

“I’m going to the roof,” she tells him then. After a quick check of the surrounding she decides that might be the only spot without threats, since no kind of flashing lights seem to come from there. 

“I’ll be there as soon as possible.” She’s about to hang on when she hears Stiles call her one more time.

“And Lydia?”

“Yeah?” His voice is soft, and something melts inside her. The urgent need of him, of hugging him and falling into his arms, feels unbearable. 

“Just… be careful.” 

“Of course.” She wipes a lonely tear off and tries to steady her voice. “I’ll wait for you.”

He whispers her a goodbye and then she’s alone again; the silence fills her ears and the summer breeze penetrates her bones. 

Whatever naive logic made her think she was going to be safe up on the school’s roof, it gets broken the moment she appears from the ladder and spots herself on the opposite side of the platform, tank top and skinny jeans and everything, long wavy strawberry locks falling on her back and pink nails digging holes in her own palms, just like she’s doing now as she clenches her fists while coming into surface.

Her copy turns around to watch her, their looks meet and Lydia sees her own fierce look reflected in those red eyes – the only difference between them.

The doppelgänger smiles at her; a knowing sneer that tells it’s been sent with a specific target that goes further from smiling. Lydia would be almost flattered by the horsemen’s overesteem for her, clearly reckoning a banshee the only equal weapon to use against another one. 

They’re right… except for the fact that she’s the only banshee here. 

But as she canalizes all her energies in her hands and directs them to the creature in front of her, just simultaneously the alter-ego reacts with the same rapidity and screams with her, sending waves of power against her own. Lydia’s taken aback by its attack – while well aware of a doppelgänger she didn’t imagine it to assume her powers too, together with her aspect. 

The two floods of energy meet halfway and at the impact her body literally shakes, finding it more difficult that she thought to handle it; after all, being the only banshee, Lydia never had to fight such a kind of power like hers. 

Although she’s winning, the monster doesn’t seem struggling, nor does it look defeated. Its face is indifferent, not unlike the same mask she put on whenever her mother used to talk shit about her father; it’s just as detached and marble, but holding that homicidal look to mark a stark difference between the two of them.

Lydia’s here to fight; that thing is there to kill. Her and, by consequence, Stiles. 

The thought deepens her scream, her throat burning with revenge and desperation for a future she agreed on losing in spite of him– the only reason she’s still fighting. Then the waves increase, become higher and wider, they swallow the other Lydia’s scream like a crushing wall that finally reaches its target and smashes her double on the ground.

Almost. 

The fake Lydia stays still on one side, laying on the dirty floor of the roof silent and with the same creepy look in its bloodshot eyes. It glances at her, smirks and chills immediately spread across Lydia’s skin. 

It lasts a couple of seconds, before Lydia sees the exact copy of her body explode in front of her. It’s a green firework that she has no time to contemplate – not that she would – because in a blink of eye she finds herself with her back pressed against the railing and an aching pulse in her chest, as if something inside her was burning to ashes, consuming her. 

She realizes she had closed her eyes for the shock and the impact, but when she opens them back, the sight of a vivid, green flame dancing on her chest, right above her heart, doesn’t help at all. 

The monster has faded away, the night and forest around sound silent and pacific, and it feels like the quiet stokes the flame, and it goes deeper and  _ deeper _ ; her skin handles it because it’s not meant to hurt her body but something hidden inside her instead, intangible and vital. 

Lydia’s too focused on staring at the green fire slowly dissipate from her skin, with her breath suffocated and the heart hammering in her ears, to pay attention to anything else. 

“Lydia?” 

Her name wakes her up; she realizes she has been holding the railing beside her with such strength to turn her knuckles white and leave red marks on her palms. Then again, the pain in her hands is the least of her worries compared with the one facing her, with a parted mouth, a fresh cut of the sharp cheekbone and wide, amber eyes watching her with a new sentiment that they’ve never held– not for her. 

Disappointment. 

“Stiles… Stiles,  _ please _ let me–“ 

He shakes his head but he’s crying already, “What does  _ that  _ mean?” He points at the spot on her chest where the green lights had vanished for good by now. 

“Stiles, listen. I– I had to.” She takes a step forward but he steps back simultaneously and it  _ kills _ her inside.

“You’re one of them.” 

“Let me explain...”

“You lied to me. All this time…” 

“I was trying to protect you!” She cries out, feeling those few feet that separate them so much longer as they keep arguing. 

“YOU COULD’VE TOLD ME.”

“NO I COULDN’T,” Lydia shouts back, tears streaming down her cheeks without control, “I really couldn’t, Stiles.” 

He keeps shaking his head and watches her with that look of disappointment, one she had hoped for so long not to see in his eyes, even less if directed at her. He’s just as sad as she is, as desperate as her love, and as hopeless as her future. 

“We would’ve found a way,” he whispers then between sobs, after a while. “We always do.” 

“Not this time.” Before he has the time to retort, she rushes forward and takes his trembling hand in hers, that’s shaking just as much. He slightly jumps at the contact but his eyes seem to melt a bit as they meet hers, holding so much love and devotion she hopes he can see all those things and so, so much more reflected in hers too, as she watches this beautiful boy who she’s been blessed to consider hers.

He made her feel alive even when every supernatural creature around them had tried to kill her off. He made her feel alive even when she was literally dead – he brought her back to life, to  _ him _ . He made her feel alive even when her destiny was signed with rough calligraphy and green ink by Death itself. 

“I did it for you,” she breathes out though the tears, “I wanted to keep you al–“ 

A pure white splinter pierces the air, crosses the roof, and sucks her oxygen. There’s an immaculate figure on a horse, the one who’s always been silent, and yet he brought the chaos around them and a shining arrow into her ribs. 

_ Pestilence and Justice.  _

The white horseman is just a blur when Lydia glimpses at him, and then he’s gone. Her sight is dizzy, the sounds muffled by a constant buzzing and she realizes someone is screaming her name, sobbing probably – she’s not sure; it might be her. 

She feels her shirt wet and  _ warm _ but when she tries to reach for it, the first thing her hands find is a marble stick planted in her upper abdomen. It surely used to be white, before it got marred in blood.

All her attempts to grab the arrow fail, her knees buckle and suddenly she’s on the ground, shaking, the taste of salt making it harder if possible to breath. So Lydia focuses on Stiles’ voice, as she always does when the fear consumes her soul – because yes, although it’s the plan, it doesn’t mean she’s not scared. 

Everything becomes a struggle; to breath, to hear, to see … she closes her eyes for a second, and when she opens them back she’s not even sure if she’s still lying on the high school’s roof anymore. She struggles to feel. 

Here there’s no Stiles. He couldn’t save her this time... it was her turn after all. 

Lydia feels her bones aching from her sobbing; her chest clenches so much to leave her panting, but the arrow in her belly has nothing to do with the lack of oxygen now. 

It’s cold, so  _ so  _ cold, and for the first time in ten years, Lydia doesn’t see a way it could get warmer.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY FOR THE HIATUS (AGAIN), i went to an intensive polish curse in Krakow for three weeks, and added to some personal issues it took me _ages_ to start the chapter off in first place.  
>  Kudos to Catherine (youaretoosmart/cave_canem) & Alice (softsangsters) for polishing my baby and make it readable, love you guys <3
> 
> And i love YOU, Reader! This story is almost done and i can't believe there are poeple still eager to go on with it, your comments motivate me everyday to write more, so /please/ don't stop! Let me know what you think about the chapter, and thanks for reading xx

**Author's Note:**

> I DON'T KNOW WHEN I'LL UPDATE cause you know... uni and stuff
> 
> a slice of italian pizza will be given to every nice comment i get, i wouldn't waste such a chance.
> 
> thank you so much for reading my story, let me know what you think about it please!  
> You find me on tumblr as [lydias-martin](https://lydias-martin.tumblr.com/).


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